The Animal Heaven

Here they are. The soft eyes open.If they have lived in a woodIt is a wood.If they have lived on plainsIt is grass rollingUnder their feet forever.

Having no souls, they have come,Anyway, beyond their knowing.Their instincts wholly bloomAnd they rise.The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,Outdoing, desperatelyOutdoing what is required:The richest wood,The deepest field.

For some of these,It could not be the placeIt is, without blood.These hunt, as they have done,But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.They stalk more silently,And crouch on the limbs of trees,And their descentUpon the bright backs of their prey

May take yearsIn a sovereign floating of joy.And those that are huntedKnow this as their life,Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledgeOf what is in glory above themAnd to feel no fear,But acceptance, compliance.Fulfilling themselves without pain.

At the cycle’s center,They tremble, they walkUnder the tree,They fall, they are torn,They rise, they walk again.

From Drowning with Others (1962)