Winged Rock

The flesh of the house is heavy sea-orphaned stone, the imagination
of the house
Is in those little clay kits of swallows
Hung in the eaves, bright wings flash and return, the heavy rock
walls commercing
With harbors of the far hills and the high
Rills of water, the river-meadow and the sea-cloud. You have
also, O sleepy stones,
The red, the white and the marbled pigeons
To beat the blue air over the pinewood and back again in a moment;
and the bush-hidden
Killdeer nest against the west wall-foot,
That is fed from many strange ebbs; besides the woodful of
finches, the shoring gulls,
The sudden attentive passages of hawks.