I'll show you what's really liquid--it's this sunlight pouring down
from the west, from the great glass jar of the sky. The creek playing
its little tune, running over the stones. The descant
of syllables in the mockingbird's song. For not a single
hickory nut banked by the squirrels will gain any interest.
Not a grain of wheat in the wallet of a chipmunk's cheek
will increase in worth. The bear's fat layer is its IRA.
Here in the woods, it's autumn's great investment portfolio; look,
everything's turned the color of money: copper, brass, gold.