A sparrow hawk flies away in front
I find a poem
But lose its flight.
Corrected, I watch a jackrabbit run like a small deer into tall grass
But lost in more words,
Rooks in the next field shout.
And what are these adolescent long-necked pheasants
Milling apprehensive at the head of the field?
Two independently break cover and having made surprise revelations of themselves dash in the erect posture of dinosaurs and road runners;
Less tamed than their battery-raised fellows who continue to mill,
Torn between instinct and breeding;
Put here not for a mirror for ourselves,
But mirrors anyway.