I see man put an end to starlight, moving mountains. Underneath the earth: fire and blackness. Even dust turns to gold. Adonai. Man puts his hand to the flinty rock, dams the stream. His eye sees every precious thing. Adonai. Oh, my eye caught a flicker in the eaves, wind singing to me with the feathers and the leaves, moss on the bones of an oak tree, fiber wove through all that be, O Adonai. O holy grove of the rhododendron, looking like a child for a secret emblem, wild enough to keep us guessing. Our brother William slipped through the nightshade, marveler once and always. I know you saw his face.

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