Here they are. The soft eyes open. <br />If they have lived in a wood <br />It is a wood. <br />If they have lived on plains <br />It is grass rolling <br />Under their feet forever. <br /> <br />Having no souls, they have come, <br />Anyway, beyond their knowing. <br />Their instincts wholly bloom <br />And they rise. <br />The soft eyes open. <br /> <br />To match them, the landscape flowers, <br />Outdoing, desperately <br />Outdoing what is required: <br />The richest wood, <br />The deepest field. <br /> <br />For some of these, <br />It could not be the place <br />It is, without blood. <br />These hunt, as they have done, <br />But with claws and teeth grown perfect, <br /> <br />More deadly than they can believe. <br />They stalk more silently, <br />And crouch on the limbs of trees, <br />And their descent <br />Upon the bright backs of their prey <br /> <br />May take years <br />In a sovereign floating of joy. <br />And those that are hunted <br />Know this as their life, <br />Their reward: to walk <br /> <br />Under such trees in full knowledge <br />Of what is in glory above them, <br />And to feel no fear, <br />But acceptance, compliance. <br />Fulfilling themselves without pain <br /> <br />At the cycle’s center, <br />They tremble, they walk <br />Under the tree, <br />They fall, they are torn, <br />They rise, they walk again.<br /><br />James Dickey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-heaven-of-animals/
