Cardinals, dragonflies, and titmice
Abound in these woods—
Beauty falling from the air.
But these odonates,
Don’t they love to prey and feast
On their young, immature males
Al fresco or fuori
Before they grow turquoise
Like calm and clear coral seas?
But who is a poet who would mind
The religious and mystic sound
Of those lofty names
Which these swift and nimble flyers
Apply to the art of their life and even death
They so ardently press—a fresco—
If it comes to eastern pondhawks,
Erythemis simplicicollis,
Onto freshly laid-down flesh
So that, in one sudden swoop,
One becomes fused with another—
A brilliant and lasting finish.
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