The trickle cutting from the hill-crown
Whorls to a pure pool here, with a whisp trout like a spirit.
The water is wild as alcohol —
Distilling from the fibers of the blue wind.
Reeds, nude and tufted, shiver as they wade.
I see the whole huge hill in the small pool’s stomach.
This will be serious for the hill.
It suspects nothing.
Crammed with darkness, the dull, trusting giant
Leans, as over a crystal, over the water
Where his future is forming.