Dead Horse In Field

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