The feet of the heron,
under those bamboo stems,
hold the blue body,
the great beak
above the shallows

In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes

Don’t call this world adorable, or
It’s frisky, and a theater for mor
The eyelash of lightning is neithe
The struck tree burns like a pilla
But the blue rain sinks, straight

In the early curtains
of the dusk
it flew,
a slow galloping
this way and that way

at twilight
when something begins
to sing, like a waterfall
pouring down
through the leaves. It is