Among twenty snowy mountains the only thing moving was John Cage.
NB: there never was a blackbird in the Himalayas.
One never flies out into the same mountains twice.
Heraclitus and Cage had many things in common.
Both stitched their faces many times out of silence.
Both asked, which year was that? Was it summer or winter?
Each had his proleptic humor—anticipating dread well in advance.
Each dropped his eyes into a warm bath.