Ursula K. Le Guin
From The Kenyon Review, New Series, Spring, 1987, Vol. IX, No. 2
They ring bells in the marshes,
little bells in the evening in choruses.
It is trilling season.
A bird before sunrise
sings B, B-flat, B, over and over
and all day these three notes
are just out of hearing. Violets
flaunt, springs start from dirt
as if there was nothing to flowing.
Mists loom along the Kokosing,
clouds bank colors, wind irises
vastly, vanishes suddenly, rain
widens and ceases, a weather
immoderate, generous, central.
That Ohio, late March to early April,
full moon to no moon,
was a long way from edges,
the salt harshness and the bitter ends:
a lap, a bowl, an offering, allowing
two hawks above a field
at play, layering spirals
one over the other higher and higher,
to prove the breadth of continent, the depth of air,
and the dimension of their constancy.