All around the wood's dark trees

For three hundred some degrees 

The world today is filled with wind 

As the winter snows rescind, 

Leaving bare spots where the roots

Of lodgepoles plan their fruits;

All around this budding world

The roar of altitude's unfurled,

Descended from some troubled shear

Or disturbance in the stratosphere,

To test its strength against the tines

And tunnels of our human pines

Until beneath the glowing sky

The air is one long blowing cry,

As sun's apocalyptic sound 

Moves closer to the dripping ground,

The solar system's hissing birth

Fallen breezily to earth,

The music of the spheres made flesh

When planets and their subjects mesh.


Tippet Alley

March 25th, 1999

78, rue des Archives

July 3rd, 1999, 12:57 p.m.