Pinewoods.

In the pinewoods is where the owl floats, and where the white egret paces, in summer, like a winged snake, in the flashing shallows. Here is where two deer approached me one morning, in an unforgettable sweetness, their faces like light-brown flowers, their eyes kindred and full of curiosity. The mouth of one of them, and its vibrant tongue, licked my hand. This is where the coyotes appeared, one season, and followed me, bold beyond belief, and nimble— lean ferocities just held in check. This is where, once, I heard suddenly a powerful beating of wings, a feisty rhythm, a pomp of sound, within it a thrust then a slight uptake. The wings of angels might sound so, who are after all not mild but militant, and cross the skies on important missions. Then, just above the trees, their feet trailing and their eyes blazing, two swans flew by.

Mary Oliver