rolls of clouds stretching into unwound cloth,
waving grasses in reflected pools
spiny bushes bent over dark rock,
the daytime moon’s cottony eye
beside a ragged-toothed sun.
The bright, then shadowed mountains,
the falling gestures of light in graying earth,
were there and then gone as he beheld
the clear ribbon of film,
nothing but the transparency of memory
his black calligraphy of birds,
struggling anew for a voice.