Hunter not the hunted The cast wind blows through me cold Breathing deep deep down pike fishing Grabbing out his hands full Eels writhing One day spoonbills did stoop down their beaks To the black sweet star swaying water Fine dreams Seeing him there with his coat hung on the tail By the door swinging open And there they stand still boy girl In the morning firelight Washing their hands in the snow.

 

Here the lapwings go

 

Owls hoot their bone flutes Inland smoke rise Heron slouched in the slit Where lies the femmen and their wives With pot shards and scythes dissolving My hands in the silky mud feeling God holds me above the water Hears my garbled words.

 

But I know where all the birds hide Their eggs speckled and warm Glowing in the dawn Hearts whirrng against my palm Sharp innocent eyes.

 

And on the wind my boat rises

 

Sturgeon crease the water's skin Around beside in front of him Rowing out, drifting out Watch my figure burn