They reach up and dance for the sky.
They sing a dry song, swaying,
Touching my legs.
A trail behind me,
untouched before.
Almost a sea, yet broken -
By the grey of stones
Forgotten by some glacial surge
Of winter's past.
The ripple of sound,
redwing calling,
A place of silence
Filled with endless song -
Unknown, unheard, abundantly swelling,
Here now, tomorrow gone.
A dry whisper touches my cheek;
upon the hand unseen,
rides white clouds of cotton.
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