874. Day, by A. R. Ammons

On a cold late
September morning,
wider than sky-wide
discs of lit-shale clouds

skim the hills,
crescents, chords
of sunlight
now and then fracturing

the long peripheries:
the crow flies
on course but destinationless,

hurry, hurry,
the running light says,
while anything remains.

Source: The Selected Poems