Читать книгу Washita - Patrick Lane T. - Страница 8

ASSINIBOINE

Deep summer nights and you, far off, quiet in the dawn.

That last morning the mute swans were on the river and I was unclean.

I placed hot stones in water as you told me of the old people

beside the slow current singing. If I look hard enough I believe

I can see the swans slide past on that long river going toward the lake.

It took many stones, you weaving grouse feathers in your hair, and laughing.

Do you remember the swans? The birds whose wings were song?

Your mother told you they were ghost birds. But she was crazy, you said.

And then the city and you lost again in the bars, the empty rooms.

It was the time one of my last lives was changing.

I looked hard, but there was no finding you.

I turned all the way around then and headed west toward the grey rain.

It was a far way, that walking to the place where the sun drowns.