The Argus Pheasant

You sometimes hear
A voice call
You, (while I hear
Two beasts brawl

Amidst the trees):
Walk into the bamboo
Forest, find—or inscribe
A billet-doux

(I will be hiding,
Not thinking,
The mud walls slide,
The valley is sinking),

Straighten out the nests,
Move a branch, let
In some sun, the bird
Drinks from the rivulet,

The sun is blazing,
It is only a glass
Its source is beyond
Photons and mass.

The feather display
Of the argus pheasant,
The sweet tomorrow
In the ubiquitous present,

The clouds below, the
Rock face, clinging
Trees, pure sky, a
Crown of a cloud, 
You find the swinging

Pendulum of your heart
As high as La Paz,
A driving wind
Whips away the “hurrahs,”

You rebuild the hut
The storm had torn down,
On the crest of the hill,
The ultimate crown.