Thanks to Christine Whittemore for sharing this.
here is a beautiful poem by Ann Drysdale:
The top is spinning slower, the sound changes.
It lurches on the last part of its story
and those who know this are already grieving.
Raven coughs like an old man in the morning
clearing his cluttered pipes so as to curse
the need to rise for such a little day.
Buzzard flies lower, so that all can hear
his oh, oh, oh against a sepia sky,
his keening for the end of everything.
The young owls have grown into their voices,
left behind the strangeness of their breaking
to hurl clear cries of loss at the early moon.
Now the top teeters, soon it will stop and fall.
But only for a moment, just until
the owner steps in to prevent its ending
and set it singing on another spin.