The earth is the earth’s, not ours,
though from the soil our banners wave,
we beat our breasts
and, proudly, dispatch our planes.
Morning sun beams slowly, gains
from the east, a cloud-shrouded hill
suggesting a misty Chinese painting
begins to appear beyond the Deerfield,
over which a single crow flies, brave
in early light’s birth.
The incredible beauty isn’t ours,
it’s the earth’s.

—Stanley Dutton Willis (CC ’94)