Hunter not the hunted
The cast wind blows through me cold Breathing deep deep down pike fishing Grabbing
out his hands full Eels writhing One day spoonbills did stoop down their beaks To the
black sweet star swaying water Fine dreams Seeing him there with his coat hung on the
nail By the door swinging open And there they stand still boy girl In the morning
firelight Washing their hands in the snow.
Here the lapwings go
Owls hoot their bone flutes Inland smoke rise Heron slouched in the slit Where lies
the femmen and their wives With pot shards and scythes dissolving My hands in the
silky mud feeling God holds me above the water Hears my garbled words.
But I know where all the birds hide Their eggs speckled and warm Glowing in the dawn
Hearts whirrng against my palm Sharp innocent eyes.
And on the wind my boat rises
Sturgeon crease the water's skin Around beside in front of him Rowing out, drifting
out Watch my figure burn
