Brim-shaper and stitcher gauge

So many hat-hours at such a wage.

Statistics had an almost-constant.

Then a valley-traveling wind

Met mountain. In that instant

More than weather changed its mind.

Up in the greeny brooks, water

Ran faster, not a stone lay bare.

Then the windy weather died, dead.

Heat at the bench hung on hand,

No statistics fitted the head,

And the mind despised the mind.

Then Danbury sprang itself a peak

In one peony and willow week

Of output. Sky was a rinsed blue,

West and northwest sluicing through.

The statisticians of Danbury, Coon.

Announced that not the weather gone

Or come counts like coming or going.

Thoreau, Dickinson, and Frost

Caught in the changes poems lost

With barometer at least or most,

And Emerson, who might have said that

Hazy and hot to brisk and blowing

Makes more making under the hat.