Black walnuts hitting a barn roofFairly rapped the morning. Massachusetts,Autumn. Orioles and pumpkins. And the crack of those round shellsLike a hardwood mallet hammering a wedgeInto the moment, splitting it ever openUp ahead, letting it travel with us,Us into it, articulatedOngoing: whatever was to happen nextAnticipated as half-consciouslyAs the smack of the next mailed walnutOn the roof, but at exactly whatInterval none of us could tell. —Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)This is drawn from “The Poems of Seamus Heaney.”