in the field where crickets sound
like rocking chairs

hidden in rye
is the western marsh harrier

her yellow orb-like eyes
and arched bill

imply claw and clamour
but she is a tarnished key

that opens the door of the field
the room we cannot fathom

*

the cries of the seagull:
as if she carries the sea with her

a bird as grey as remorse
in peacock dusk

when she reaches me
her wing-light covers me

like an eggshell

*

at first, only the wind
prying open the mouth of the lake.

then the crane howling
floods the leaf-floor

the crane, the strangest river
singing the sky-path

to the blue house
where we will sleep together