What was always the vision
reaching for more of itself
had eluded me. How it
never included itself:
that we notice the high
turn of the bird in sunlight,
its grace
stuns me out of all thinking.
Stood amazed at the barley,
orchestra of the oat plant.
And came over me crossing the bridges
such immanence things have:
part of how the world thinks
so through us the blank
stuff of space knows itself.