In the last, far field, half-buried br In barberry bushes red-fruited, the thoroughbred br Lies dead, left foreleg shattered below knee, br A .30-30 in heart. In distance, br I now see gorged crows rise ragged in wind. The day br After death I had gone for farewell, and the eyes br Were already gone—that br The beneficent work of crows. Eyes gone, br The two-year-old could, of course, more readily see br Down the track of pure and eternal darkness. br br A week later I couldn’t get close. The sweet stink br Had begun. That damned wagon mudhole br Hidden by leaves as we galloped—I found it. br Spat on it. As a child would. Next day br The buzzards. How beautiful in air!—carving br The slow, concentric, downward pattern of vortex, wing-glint br On wing-glint. From the house, br Now with glasses, I see br The squabble and pushing, the waggle of wattle-red heads. br br At evening I watch the buzzards, the crows, br Arise. They swing black in nature’s flow and perfection, br High in sad carmine of sunset. Forgiveness br Is not indicated. It is superfluous. They are br What they are. br br How long before I go back to see br That intricate piece of br Modern sculpture, white now, br Assuming in stasis br New beauty! Then, br A year later, I’ll see br The green twine of vine, each leaf br Heart-shaped, soft as velvet, beginning br Its benediction. br br It thinks it is God.