In the pour of a thrush morningsong,

in the lonesome cry of a loon at moonrise,

is the rush of more half-words:

All horns are one horn

and I am the sheep, the goat,

the yak, the buffalo, the prongbuck.

All shells are one shell

and I am the mussel clam,

the oyster, the mother-of-pearl.

I have been a freshwater polyp, a star-fish,

budding into evermore births of likeness

following likeness.

I have spent nights as kin of singing crickets,

meadow locusts, katydids, only the males singing,

the females silent and waiting.

I have been the calling frog with a bubble at his

throat—and the spotted snake who came to spell

doom and appeasement of hunger.

I have spoken as a brother to the walking stick

and the hesitations of his stilts and knee-joints.

I am the penguin and ostrich

trying to remember lost wings.

I am the snake who had many legs

trying to remember my lost legs.

I have had a thousand fish faces, sea faces,

sliding off into land faces, monkey faces—

I began in a dim green mist

of floating faces.

I have worn covers of thick strong hair and smooth fur.

I have shed rain and sleet with my feathers and down.

I have carried thick wool wrapping me warm as I slept in snow.

I have had tropic and arctic garments bestowed on me.

* * *

Since death is there in the light of the sun, in the song of the wind,

Since death is there in the marvel of the sun coming up to travel its arc and go down saying, “I am time and you are time,”

Since death is there in the slow creep of every dawn and in all the steps of shadow moving into evening and dusk of stars,

Since death is there in almost inaudible chimes of every slow clock-tick beginning at the birth hour there must be a tremor of music in the last little gong, the pling of the final announcement from the Black Void.

Have I not seen forms

flowing into faces and voices—

numbers hoarse and high with the mating cry

over rolling white sea-horses and forked lightning,

over the infinite velvet of blue land-fog,

over sacramental bread and heavy blood roses,

over mate-brown pigeons flying into burnt wilderness,

gazing into star-pool waters holding the great serene

constellations?

I meditate with the mud eel

on where we came from.

Not yet can I give the scream speech

of a great white albatross—

frozen foam and sea-drift for her

high on an iceberg’s shining white hat,

whirr and sweep of her wings

in the splinters of an arc of northern lights.

I am a three-hundred-year-old galapagos turtle,

sleeping and eating, eating and sleeping,

blinking and easy, sleepy-eyed and easy,

while shakespeare writes a flock of plays,

while john bunyan sits in jail and writes a book,

while cromwell, napoleon, lincoln, wilson, lenin,

come and go, stride and vanish

while bryan, morgan, rockefeller, lafollette, altgeld,