Волны

           Theirroundeyesbulgedwithbrightness;theirclawsgrippedthetwigorrail.Theysang,exposedwithoutshelter,totheairandthesun,beautifulintheirnewplumage,shell-veinedorbrightlymailed,herebarredwithsoftblues,heresplashedwithgold,orstripedwithonebrightfeather.Theysangasifthesongwereurgedoutofthembythepressureofthemorning.Theysangasiftheedgeofbeingweresharpenedandmustcut,mustsplitthesoftnessoftheblue-greenlight,thedampnessofthewetearth;thefumesandsteamsofthegreasykitchenvapour;thehotbreathofmuttonandbeef;therichnessofpastryandfruit;thedampshredsandpeelingsthrownfromthekitchenbucket,fromwhichaslowsteamoozedontherubbishheap.Onallthesodden,thedamp-spotted,thecurledwithwetness,theydescended,dry-beaked,ruthless,abrupt.Theyswoopedsuddenlyfromthelilacboughorthefence.Theyspiedasnailandtappedtheshellagainstastone.Theytappedfuriously,methodically,untiltheshellbrokeandsomethingslimyoozedfromthecrack.Theysweptandsoaredsharplyinflightshighintotheair,twitteringshort,sharpnotes,andperchedintheupperbranchesofsometree,andlookeddownuponleavesandspiresbeneath,andthecountrywhitewithblossom,flowingwithgrass,andtheseawhichbeatlikeadrumthatraisesaregimentofplumedandturbanedsoldiers.Nowandagaintheirsongsrantogetherinswiftscalesliketheinterlacingsofamountainstreamwhosewaters,meeting,foamandthenmix,andhastenquickerandquickerdownthesamechannel,brushingthesamebroadleaves.