In draws, and on a ridge two red mares browse On meager blades. A katydid sings and sings Its desiccated old lament upon A mullein stalk. A thread of smoke, a mile Away, climbs perpendicular a while. In vertigo before a sheer abyss. No bird sweeps that air.
Black rocks hiss With all that wind.
And we know where we are. From the physical depiction of a very specific landscape, the whole world opens before us. The theme has continued, into his latest poems. Nor is it the dream of two merging streams Becoming one. Only the hawk can tell us If and when there is an end, but he will not say.