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Northward, on the sands, on some shallow bay of
Paumanok, I, with parties of snowy herons
wading in the wet to seek worms and aquatic
plants;
Retreating, triumphantly twittering, the king-bird,
from piercing the crow with its bill, for amusement
—And I triumphantly twittering;
The migrating flock of wild geese alighting in autumn
to refresh themselves—the body of the flock feed
—the sentinels outside move around with erect
heads watching, and are from time to time relieved
by other sentinels—And I feeding and
taking turns with the rest;
In Kanadian forests, the moose, large as an ox, cornered
by hunters, rising desperately on his hind-feet,
and plunging with his fore-feet, the hoofs
as sharp as knives—And I, plunging at the
hunters, cornered and desperate;
In the Mannahatta, streets, piers, shipping, storehouses,
and the countless workmen working in
the shops,
And I too of the Mannahatta, singing thereof—and
no less in myself than the whole of the Mannahatta
in itself,
Singing the song of These, my ever united lands
—my body no more inevitably united, part to
part, and made one identity, any more than
my lands are inevitably united, and made one
identity,
Nativities, climates, the grass of the great Pastoral
Plains,
Cities, labors, death, animals, products, good and evil
—these me,