At Work
On slow wings the marsh hawk is patrolling
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Clouds curdle round it, crack open, let it through.
Radiance shades by cloudshapes; fat fruit
of incandescence; sphere of peeled silver. I wonder
Psalm after psalm into a dead sea of silence: they invite
their own enormous, endangered day. Scalded, lord,
by sunlight and the lizards watching, licking dust,
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possibility--soaring, sliding down almost to ground level,
twisting suddenly at something in the marsh hay or dune grass,
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