The soughing rises out there, through the grove,

through time

It is a new attempt

from the obviousness,

from everything that is not me;

from the landscape, from the temperature, air pressure,

humidity;

a language I interpret

Cesi & Silver, twelve-week-old kittens,

discover the world,

but a different world than mine;

whiskered, clawed

I keep myself in shape, disciplined;

throwing out observations,

recording the rustling in the trees in writing;

letting the pen dance its late Spring Sacrifice dance;

Le Sacre du printemps in August's opening,

on the way to the dark nights' silent moon

in Peter Schuback's Tramontata ë la luna,

completed in Japanese haikus

and zen koans

I step forward through my body,

which lies before me like a glacier tunnel,

eternity ajar in the calligrapher's marten hairbrush