Southward

White flecks are flung against dark granite Above the cold glitter of the mountain lake. They flash and vanish like wind-tossed paper. Watching from the peak, we see slow wings Beat out their mastery. They wheel and are white; They wheel once more and are lost against the pines. In tight-drawn ranks the pelicans come to the crest, Move swiftly over. For an instant, one after another, They pass across the sun and their wings are flame And their heads are dominant spears Outthrust to the south and the sea... Then we feel that the wind and the rock are cold, And in us move the memories Of warm skies and sunny water.