Clouds rise from their nests with flapping wings, they whisper of worn leather, bracken, long horizons, and the manes of dark horses. In the waking stream the stones lie like chestnuts in a glass bowl. I pass the bones of an old harrow thrown on its side in the ditch. Now the sun appears. It is a fish wrapped in straw. Its scales fall on the sleeping town with its eyeless graineries and necklace of boxcars. Soon the blue wind will flatten the roads with a metallic palm, the glitter of granite will blind the eyes. But not yet. The beetle still stares from the riding moon, the ship of death stands motionless on frozen waves: I hear the silence of early morning rise from the rocks.
From A Ship of Bells, published by Kayak Press. Used by permission.