Читать книгу Washita - Patrick Lane T. - Страница 15

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Snow dust in the pines and the shadows of swans on skim ice.

The surface breaks and sweet water swims in their feathers.

What joy to sing a last song to the moon.

Twilight is upon me. My poor eyes gather in the dusk.

Surely the earth trembles at the hummingbird’s heart in the egg.

The beating knot at the end of a sentence. Large as that.

Among spiderwebs and moss a life will cry come spring.

The Chinese called their Gobi dead red dust.

What shall I call you?

Tonight I took my shorn hair and laid it on the arms of the pines.

In the morning the hummingbirds will line their nests with me.