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This is Summer Morning by Charles Simic.

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I love to stay in bed, all morning,

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covers thrown off, naked, eyes closed, listening.

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Outside they're opening their primers in the little school of the cornfield.

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There's a smell of damp hay, of horses, laziness, summer sky, and eternal life.

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I know all the dark places where the sun hasn't reached yet

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Where the last cricket has just hushed

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Ant hills

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Where it sounds like it's raining

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Slumbering spider-spinning wedding dresses

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I pass over the farmhouses where the little mouths open to suck

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Barnyards where a man, naked to the waist

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Washes his face and shoulders with a hose

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where the dishes begin to rattle in the kitchen.

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The good tree with its voice of a mountain stream knows my steps.

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It, too, hushes.

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I stop and listen.

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Somewhere close by, a stone cracks a knuckle.

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Another turns over in its sleep.

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I hear a butterfly stirring inside a caterpillar.

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I hear the dust talking of last night's storm. Farther ahead, someone even more silent passes over the grass without bending it, and all of a sudden, in the midst of that quiet, it seems possible to live simply on this earth.