Weather Bird

Richard Wilbur

It's hard to decide whether the weather-swallow
Seems on his standard over a tile hill
To be flying stock-still,
Or hurdling, rather, a tall composite billow,
Far too fast for the sea's
Slack to be seen, and the vast redundancies.

And it's hard to say whether the swallow's standard
Looks like a leash he ever strains to break,
Holding him lest he take

The sky too far; or whether the house, half-foundered,
Cast him a line, in the hope
He'd raise it toward horizons with that rope.

Both would be best. Contention magnifies,
And this discarnate swallow is the crown
Of all that pulls him down,
Since as a schoolboy's kite he tries to rise,
And must be held-to tight
For fear the house will lose its touch with height.

A house should hug the earth, but turn with it,
Be buoy to circling storms, and the moon's manger,
Aware of the slight danger
Its halcyon bird may hurl to a helix, set
The roof toward anywhere,
And tug the dwellers into empty air.