It’s all very well to dream of a dove that saves, <br />Picasso’s or the Pope’s, <br />The one that annually coos in Our Lady’s ear <br />Half the world’s hopes, <br />And the other one that shall cunningly engineer <br />The retirement of all businessmen to their graves, <br />And when this is brought about <br />Make us the loving brothers of every lout— <br /> <br /> <br />But in our part of the country a false dusk <br />Lingers for hours; it steams <br />From the soaked hay, wades in the cloudy woods, <br />Engendering other dreams. <br />Formless and soft beyond the fence it broods <br />Or rises as a faint and rotten musk <br />Out of a broken stalk. <br />There are some things of which we seldom talk; <br /> <br /> <br />For instance, the woman next door, whom we hear at night, <br />Claims that when she was small <br />She found a man stone dead near the cedar trees <br />After the first snowfall. <br />The air was clear. He seemed in ultimate peace <br />Except that he had no eyes. Rigid and bright <br />Upon the forehead, furred <br />With a light frost, crouched an outrageous bird.<br /><br />Anthony Evan Hecht<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/birdwatchers-of-america/
