The poem moves like a dream: a few quiet images set side by side, with no explanation linking them. The speaker is asleep and "hunting books," as if reading were something to track down and catch. Then the scene shifts to a woman, described as the best poet of the nation, simply washing her hair. It is raining, and she sings.
What stands out is how ordinary the poet looks. She isn't on a stage or at a desk. Her song is compared to air, something we breathe without noticing. The last lines, "so natural / saying nothing," suggest that real poetry may not need to announce a message. It can just be present, like weather or breath.
The speaker seems calm and a little in awe, listening rather than hunting now. The mood is soft, hushed, and gently surreal, like a dream you wake from wanting to stay in.