Poet's Choice

Below, the light of a car blurred

as it took the corner

The body turns

because there's wind. It turns

because it has no weight. The face goes

up, then down again, a soft thud

against the clapboards. It could be

anyone up there. And the leaves -- their

thousands fall into the street, yellow wet,

rimmed with dark

Not that anything's eternal

or exactly like any other thing

Viewpoint can be everything, such poems convey: It's how you attend to a thing, and from where. Here is another poem, from about 10 years earlier:

The Hawk

He was halfway through the grackle