This, the last poem I offer, is called "Heart of Autumn."
The hour when the first great flocks of Canadian geese
come over in the north, headed south to their fate.
Wind finds the northwest gap, fall comes.
Today, under gray cloud-scud and over gray wind-flicker
of forest, in perfect formation, wild geese
head for a land of warm water.
The boom, the lead pellet.
Some crumple in air, fall.
Some stagger, recover control.
Then take the last glide for a far glint of water.
None knows what has happened.
Now, today, watching how tirelessly V upon V
arrows the seasons logic, do I know my own story?
At least they know when the hour comes for the great wing beat.
Sky strider, star strider--
they rise, and the imperial utterance which cries out
for distance quivers in the wailing sky.
That much they know, and their nature
know the path of pathlessness, with all the joy of destiny
for fulfilling its own name.
I have known time and distance, but not why I am here.
Path of logic, path of folly--
all the same.
And I stand, my face lifted now skyward,
hearing the high beat by arms outstretched to the tingling
process of transformation and soon, tough legs
with folded feet, trail in the sounding vacuum of passage,
and my heart is impacted with a fierce impulse
to unavoidable utterance--
toward sunset at a great height.
Thank you very much.
[APPLAUSE]