Birds

The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting on the headland, Hovering and darting, their heads northwestward, Prick like silver arrows shot through a curtain the noise of the ocean Trampling its granite; their red backs gleam Under my window around the stone corners; nothing gracefuller, nothing Nimbler in the wind. Westward the wave-gleaners, The old gray sea-going gulls are gathered together, the northwest wind wakening Their wings to the wild spirals of the wind-dance. Fresh as the air, salt as the foam, play birds in the bright wind, fly falcons Forgetting the oak and the pinewood, come gulls From the Carmel sands and the sands at the river-mouth, from Lobos and out of the limitless Power of the mass of the sea, for a poem Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters, musically clamorous Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong, and ungainly Gray hungers fledged with desire of transgression, salt slimed beaks, from the sharp Rock-shores of the world and the secret waters.