Three miles through the woods <br />Clapp's Pond sprawls stone gray <br />among oaks and pines, <br />the late winter fields <br /> <br />where a pheasant blazes up <br />lifting his yellow legs <br />under bronze feathers, opening <br />bronze wings; <br /> <br />and one doe, dimpling the ground as she touches <br />its dampness sharply, flares <br />out of the brush and gallops away. <br /> <br />* <br /> <br />By evening: rain. <br />It pours down from the black clouds, <br />lashes over the roof. The last <br />acorns spray over the porch; I toss <br />one, then two more <br />logs on the fire. <br /> <br />* <br /> <br />How sometimes everything <br />closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments <br />flowing together until the sense of distance - - - <br />say, between Clapp's Pond and me - - - <br />vanishes, edges slide together <br />like the feathers of a wing, everything <br />touches everything. <br /> <br />* <br /> <br />Later, lying half-asleep under <br />the blankets, I watch <br />while the doe, glittering with rain, steps <br />under the wet slabs of the pines, stretches <br />her long neck down to drink <br /> <br />* <br /> <br />from the pond <br />three miles away.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clapp-s-pond/
