The marsh hawk
doesn't,
as other hawks do,
work his wings
like soft hinges
to make
progress over
the morning marsh,
but merely
or so it seems,
lays his breast upon the air
and the air, as if understanding,
floats him along
with his wings open,
and raised, just a little
beyond the horizontal-in thanks, perhaps,
to the great crystal carrier
of leaves and clouds-
of everything.
And even though his shadow
follows exactly
his every tilt and flow, and even though
he must know that hunger will win,
he doesn't hurry,
but floats in wide circles
as he gazes
into the marshes below
his hard beak
and the hooks of his feet, as though
wanting something
more lasting than meat.
At noon he's still there
above the brambles, the grass, the flat water,
where, in their almost stately disengagement,
the incredible dampness and darkness
shine.
--Mary Oliver
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