Morning Song, with Drums
What's O'Clock
The pheasants cry in the dawn,Mocking the glitter of the nearby cityStruck upon the sky.
Ivy in a wind,Smooth grass,Old cedar-trees.
Change is a bitter thing to contemplateAcross a grey dawn.Puff-ball world, forsooth,A kick and it is broken into smoke.
The pheasant's cry is raucous in the dawn.