A rusty grackle walks the apple’s bough.
He wanders through a green cloth of leaves
With back arched impudently, and pauses,
Plump-bodied and balanced, searching beneath.
There are eyes in the grass,
Eyes lying still beneath stalk and pod where doodles
Drill their earthen cones, and ants march in a forest
Of living swords.
I think that neither the grackle’s black eyes
Nor the ant’s myopic sight has found me here,
Drowned in quivering stems, lost in wattled twigs
Of grass-trees. O I am lost to any wandering view.
I am a hill uncharted, my breathing is the wind.
I am horizon. I am earth’s far end.