Under the Asian maple I make my voice a needle and sing bird-wise—lines of the hill—sing bird-wise—tender house, silver grass, twilight—wind in the undergrowth coming along.
Believing in things they must be cold as glass; I can’t explain but two finches have flown down close. The present, alive, the sound of it…
via www.planet-of-the-blind.com
Planet of the Blind 