Looking out at immortal
dawn, it's dis-
quietingly easy—to imagine
the countless lives
which must be
buckling
under the weight of its bracing
horizon line—
above which,
cast in autumn
air's fierce clarity,
cut countless
genuine arrows;
but those
migratory animals
must never
leave home either, if
they don't care
a bit
what state they're
in—or which.
