Standing still — I never seem
To know when it comes, the trance,
I mean — I feel the stream hushed
Under its thin glass,
The horses, motionless, clinging to
The hill, a cloud balancing the sun
In a cotton hand.
I hold my breath. Then from the
Mouth of a tree explodes a flock of
Birds, flight and feather weaving
A brittle spell: Beaks
Spilling crystals lighter than dew
On spider webs. So bright my sight
I see the lilting
Notes leap, glint, hug and tease
The air, nimble as motes, do almost
Anything but disappear: with supple
Twists perform like
Aerialists. This miracle a canticle
To the stillness all around. And
Round the edges of
The sound of birds I feel a lit
Stillness deeper than that of horses,
Cloud and stream, a stillness bigger
Than love, brighter than
Light, or darker than the darkness
That moves above or under the ground
Oh, a stillness more
Luminous than Death, and I feel
It breathing in myself, no longer
Standing still but walking away —
The sunset on my back —
My pious feet stepping on the ground,
Behind me leaving no marks, no quiet,
Or the slightest sound.