To Shadow

Noon sets the tips of pines on fire;

trunks' shapes are half-guessed. The goshawk's

claws glint among ragged feathers.

My feet trace out the hurried way.

When the field and its winding path

answer no question, pose nothing,

my stride slows; easy light casts down

the tree behind me till, a shade,

I wind through the branching shadow.

Evening's levelling everything.

When I see the hawk's smooth winging

home, it seems the world lays down arms

forever. (Hunched in the thick grass,

a blind spot swimming in this blind

repose, a mole thrusts through its long

labor, through this short peace of night.)

Light wears thin. I hear doves whistling

in the dark. On the wide field, day

lies down to sleep, a man worn dark,

his own shadow's weary hunter.