Morning brink,
clouds delicate pink
the inside lip
of smooth sky-shell;
but sky's astir:
high gulls blow over,
lone hawk helix scuds and how
rattled trees bow.
A fresh-stirred, ruffling grey
suppressing guffaws
that in highlands ransack and strew.
Bird-flocks twist and loosen;
a crow must struggle
to keep her aim true.