In the last, far field, half-buried <br />In barberry bushes red-fruited, the thoroughbred <br />Lies dead, left foreleg shattered below knee, <br />A .30-30 in heart. In distance, <br />I now see gorged crows rise ragged in wind. The day <br />After death I had gone for farewell, and the eyes <br />Were already gone—that <br />The beneficent work of crows. Eyes gone, <br />The two-year-old could, of course, more readily see <br />Down the track of pure and eternal darkness. <br /> <br />A week later I couldn’t get close. The sweet stink <br />Had begun. That damned wagon mudhole <br />Hidden by leaves as we galloped—I found it. <br />Spat on it. As a child would. Next day <br />The buzzards. How beautiful in air!—carving <br />The slow, concentric, downward pattern of vortex, wing-glint <br />On wing-glint. From the house, <br />Now with glasses, I see <br />The squabble and pushing, the waggle of wattle-red heads. <br /> <br />At evening I watch the buzzards, the crows, <br />Arise. They swing black in nature’s flow and perfection, <br />High in sad carmine of sunset. Forgiveness <br />Is not indicated. It is superfluous. They are <br />What they are. <br /> <br />How long before I go back to see <br />That intricate piece of <br />Modern sculpture, white now, <br />Assuming in stasis <br />New beauty! Then, <br />A year later, I’ll see <br />The green twine of vine, each leaf <br />Heart-shaped, soft as velvet, beginning <br />Its benediction. <br /> <br />It thinks it is God. <br /> <br />Can you think of some ground on which that may be gainsaid?<br /><br />Robert Penn Warren<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-horse-in-field/
