Hidden in the Open

What endless teeming in creation, hints
the limitlessness in the limits. You watch
one black and green field-bounder, bounder
of the blades and poles of straw, watch, intent,

then for an instant lift your face to meadow's
stratosphere, then turn it quick back down
to your canoe-keel-honed grasshopper,

and it takes a long while until you find
where he was; he hasn't moved an inch
yet you, at a loss in crossing brands of almost-fire grass,
adjust and adjust...and he, he is clinched.