… at the brow of the hill was a stone wall, a dun crown, and at its heel, a trail; from heel to brow the wander walked, pacing the arc the sun traced in the sky

… at noon, the world stands at height; as if light were a special calling, a luminous gravity pulling heaven- not earth- toward, where all laid low by night’s endeavors are plucked up, tugged on strings and streamers, to momentary magnificence; I… I AM! the shout of every Thing come noon, arises in its native tongue

… the wander looks around the world, circling from east to east, while every moment sun appears to slip, begins to slide the far side of the slope, ever faster every step improves its pace; the wander rushes to keep up, wind caress the face, force to run make haste! make haste! as fingers of the heart will reach, grasp air, reach further

… I must catch it up…! unreason chases breath out of the lungs, in eyes’ deceit sun leaves us, when it’s we are in retreat; it’s we are in retreat, running full tilt, imagined legs on earth, on star

… night pretends a cloud, a shroud of mysteries, a wall that seems transparent lens where lights shine through, observers’ eyes, or tiny fires; sun’s lift expires, the ground seeds silence and water sighs, sires sleep, and harvests dreams; the wander whispers then is still, its hurry slows at the heel of the hill, then stops to rest

… rest will outlast darkness

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