A neat disjointing:

Frost pricked by heat
melts; the rut of stone
jags at the eye no more.

A universal harmony
creates unnumbered stems:
the earth was never ******.

Condoning the green
mutability of things, he corners
baby pheasants (**** and hen calloohing in the scrub),
twists at the neck. Their eyes
pop with surprise. The good earth
will maintain this spawn gone wrong two ways.

He does not hear the clapping wings,
the hawk big with the misery of things.