What, other than your right
sustains you over the warm hills
in the angel sphere, tacking loops
like a lazy tailor with a long thread?
Suddenly, with a tilt of wings
you vanish in a clear sky
Shadowless, hiding in light.
But you are there again. The sky fills
With your proud flight, slow as ropes
from a boat, tense and slack on the flood.
If I had a harp with strings
spun from birds’ whiskers, I
might sing your godliness, despite
your ineluctable, measured fall,
mewing out a mouse from its hole.