machine ghosts
A desert of weed and water-darkened stone under my western windowsThe ebb lasted all afternoon,And many pieces of humanity, men, women, and children, gathering shellfish,Swarmed with voices of gulls the sea-breach.At twilight they went off together, the verge was left vacant, an evening heronBent broad wings over the black ebb,And left me wondering why a lone bird was dearer to me than many people.Well: rare is dear: but also I supposeWell reconciled with the world but not with our own natures we grudge to see themReflected on the world for a mirror.