Across Saint Gabriel's Mountain
limbs of mist
stretch and lift -- dissolve
into a troupe of dancers,
an encampment of swans
with a hunter who pursues them.
His cross bow-- the cresent moon
fixed on a field
where tall grasses are trampled,
laid aside like arrows
that have been aimed
eslewhere, dissenting
from his original quest
and given as thatch. Shelter
to preserve
what he loves most
in the wild, the world.
And if this weapon
has been shot
earlier ( with precision)
than I fall
from sleep's shadow -- stunned
by the breadth
of song transmuting
weather and weariness
into a divine morning,
this newest year.
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