At twilight it rises off the polished mirror pond,

on cupped wings moves gray and steady above

the ripples of grassland, circling only to circle back.

All day it stalks the dark shallows for a meal,

all this orange season on stick-legs trolls to survive,

sporting its feather necklace, its backward head plume.

Often we are strangers to Earth, stumbling over the thorns

of our days. Here, sky sets fire to the silk sleeves

of its clouds. If you love this planet, stand at attention,

take only what you need, only what is rightfully yours.