Flocks of sunlight fly from hill to hill. The wave less ocean arches its vertical silver - molten translucent. A harpist harps his riddles. An old man died in the corner a thousand years ago is turned into a stature.


Fine rain browses the valleys. A tree frog winks without springing from its elderberry hideaway: even yet there is an echo behind everything that happens… so the fallen ones seem to say.


Tall trees and short ones fall down one after another. The low grass and wellspring die away in grief. The hill slides into the ravine, striped of creeper and crabgrass, the thin blue periwinkle.


Before my birth there were people here - the seedlings of my ancestors. So long ago when there was giving of shade, and praise and wonder to saplings… Mow rains wash in the color of blood. Spread my ashes beneath my offspring-

02-01-01
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