The Lone Crane’s Bones Show Clear, Now That His Mind Is Old

Each day near dawn the heart beats fine,
The same hoarse calls filed line by line.

He does what he does. What he’s done
Won’t call back now, and it’s all one

To him that he’s just one, the pond’s
Just one, the sun. The rest have gone,

And he can’t fly well. He’ll stay here,
An odd sight in small waves. The deer

Pay him no mind when they come by.
He stalks. He croaks his old, hoarse lines.

He sings his two notes to the shore.
That’s good. Sounds good. He croaks some more.