On the hill three hawks
on spread feathers
fish the summer grass.
In summer on the bare hill
the light falls in sheets.
The sheep turn like ships
at their moorings.
The crows fly downwind,
their sounds fall from the sky,
downwind they are crying.
Man, dog, birds. On the hill
sheep and the wrenched grass
lie downwind. It is summer.
The birds crossing the sky
are naked, the light falls,
downwind they are falling.
It is summer,
dog and man share the hill,
sniff the air,
hunt the birds.
As we look in the tunnel
for the end
for the bleak
unblinking eye of the daylight
he is looking
for the black holes in the sky.