And the wings torn with old storms remember
The cone that the oldest redwood dropped from, the tilting
The dinosaur's day, the lift of new sea-lines.
The omnisecular keeps the old with the new also.
Nothing at all has suffered erasure.
There is life not of our time. He calls ungainly bodies
As beautiful as the grace of horses.
He is weary of nothing; he watches air-planes; he watches pelicans.