Читать книгу Washita - Patrick Lane T. - Страница 14

CALLIGRAPHY

It was before the plum blossoms. Before that.

Before the mist and the wind rising from the sea.

And the little brown bats in the false dawn gorging on fragrant moths.

The feast that is the promise of light.

The raccoon was only a tail, a slip in the failing shadow.

And Basho coming home, his ear torn, happy with the night.

And, please, before I forget.

Write this.

Write this down:

the old rat turns and turns in his paws a delicate seed.

And the Horned owl meditates upon death on the yard pole.

O, and yes, before the pilgrim sea lion’s moon song

was your hand in my hand in the dark.