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.
