Fire On The Hills

The deer were bounding like blown

Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;

I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.

Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the

Of the deer was beautiful; and when I

Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an

Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,

Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his

He had come from far off for the good

With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was

Blue, and the hills merciless black,

The sombre-feathered great bird sleepily merciless between them.

I thought, painfully, but the whole mind,

The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than men.