who sing the golden seeming,
and all the valley choirs
forever trebly echoing
the same self-damned refrain:
the mist lies in the valley, too,
the chill will soon be ours,
and ours, the body valley-borne,
that holds its tongue and will not scorn
our trumpets, drums, our lyres.
Scott Bates
BESTIARY
The Sparrow
The sparrow breaks
like a twisted spring
the thorn of the white rose
in his wing.
An
infinite universe
of eyes
like ebony suns
in harried skies.
The bluejay falls
like the sky and spears
the remaining harmony
of the spheres.
II The Ermine
The swiftest hare
will bare his throat
to the coolest killer
in the ermine coat
who will scarcely pause
to taste the flow
