I alone, solemn land
                                                    clear, clean land,

             See your change, just as you give up part
     of your reality:
                             a scythe-sighing flight of low birds
        Now being gone:
                                     I, oversouling for an instant

                                   With them,
                                                         I alone
              See you as more than you would have

                       Be seen, yourself:
                                                    grassland,
              Dark grassland, with three birds higher
          Than those that have left.
                                                  They are up there
With great power:
                             so high they take this evening for good
                 Into their force-lines. I alone move

          Where the other birds were, the lowones,
               Still swaying in the unreal direction
               Flocking with them. They are gone

   And will always be gone; even where they believe
         They were is disappearing. But these three
         Have the height to power-line all

Land: land this clear. Any three birds hanging high enough
                      From you trace the same paths
  As strong horses circling
                                            for a man alone, born level-eyed
                                 As a pasture, but like the land
                          Tilting, looking up.

                                                         This may be it, too.