Mortal Limit

I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.

It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags

Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming

Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.

There--west--were the Tetons.  Snow-peaks would soon be

In dark profile to break constellations.  Beyond what height

Hangs now the black speck?  Beyond what range will gold eyes see

New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?

Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it

Hang motionless in dying vision before

It knows it will accept the mortal limit,

And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore

The breath of earth?  Of rock?  Of rot?  Of other such

Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?