Planing in, on the autumn gusts,
 Fleeing the inclement north, they sound
More like a hunting pack, hound
 Answering hound, than fugitives from the cold:
Flocks, skeining the air-lanes
 In stately buoyancy even seem
To dance, but one's weightless dream
 Of what they feel or are, must yield
The nearer they approach. I sense the weariness
 Of wings that bring them circling down
Onto this cut corn-field
 That offers small sustenance but rest
Among its husks and straw. Rest -
 Yet they continue calling from extended throats
As they did in flight, expending still
 Energies that they will not stint
...