The fire leaves float fine
In cold light, are words, like voice,
Like fluted chords and fallen sound.
Mountains ranged like the wings of the dragon
Collect white close to the stratosphere,
Prepared for the long-breathed sleep
Of trees, and water, iced, under
Fields of geese, and the fluid
Chaos of sparrows in the edged air.
I feel the wings rustling against my face,
And I feel the heat of the sun in a forest blindness,
An evaporating thickness into chromatic wind.