I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming. <br />It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags <br />Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming <br />Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags. <br /> <br />There--west--were the Tetons.Snow-peaks would soon be <br />In dark profile to break constellations.Beyond what height <br />Hangs now the black speck?Beyond what range will gold eyes see <br />New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light? <br /> <br />Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it <br />Hang motionless in dying vision before <br />It knows it will accept the mortal limit, <br />And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore <br /> <br />The breath of earth?Of rock?Of rot?Of other such <br />Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?<br /><br />Robert Penn Warren<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mortal-limit/
