Читать книгу The Glass Constellation - Arthur Sze - Страница 73

He describes eagle feathers with his hands.

He signs the rustle of pine needles on a mountain

path in sunlight, the taste of green water,

herding sheep in a canyon, the bones of a horse bleached

in sunlight, purple thistles growing in red dirt,

locoweed in bloom.

My mind is like a tumbleweed rolling

in the wind, smashing against the windshields of cars,

but rolling, rolling until nothing is left.

I sit in the sunlight, eyes closed:

empty mind, empty hands. I am a

great horned owl hunting in a night with no moon.

And this Indian, deaf-mute, is like a Serbian

in a twenty-four-hour truck stop,

is a yellow sandhill crane lost in Albuquerque.

I see the red blooms of a nasturtium battered

in a hailstorm. I see the bleached white bones of a horse

at the bottom of a canyon. And I see his hands,

empty hands, and words, empty words.