by Robert Penn Warren

    I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.

    It rose from coniferous darkness， past gray jags

    Of mercilessness， past whiteness， into the gloaming

    Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.

    There——west——were the Tetons.  Snow-peaks would soon be

    In dark profile to break constellations.  Beyond what height

    Hangs now the black speck？  Beyond what range will gold eyes see

    New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light？

    Or， having tasted that atmosphere's thinness， does it

    Hang motionless in dying vision before

    It knows it will accept the mortal limit，

    And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore

    The breath of earth？  Of rock？  Of rot？  Of other such

    Items， and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch？