The slow hot wind is trying to explain
Just why the sun is like a stab of pain,
The shadow of a buzzard circling low
Outlines the rotting carcass of a doe,
And where a sulphur pool has puckered through
Quick hyacinths have flung a blur of blue.

Its endlessness an ache against the eyes,
The sawgrass marches on to meet the skies,
The gaunt and twisted mangrove-root parades
This vastness men have called the Everglades,
And legs absurdly long support the crane
That looks upn the whole with fine discain.


From Flamingo (Henry Harrison, 1932).
This poem is in the public domain.