She moves to the rhythm of blue,
A rhythm I know intimately,
but can never truly understand —
Such is the curse of the hunter.
I’ve come close, many times, to catching her;
I can turn to smoke, fire, and earth —
Anything through which I can pass,
I can become,
Except for the sky,
Which is hers
Though I know the science of the sky,
Like a lover its essence eludes my grasp,
And my power to mimic.
It’s for the embrace of the sky
That I hunt her.
She knows nothing of her world,
Save how it bears her up,
But in this little intimacy,
She is as much part of the sky
As the sky itself,
While I, a scholar of its properties,
Am a stranger to it.
Always it betrays me in the last;
Just as I get within reach of her
She seems me through the blue,
Then she becomes a fistful of ribbons
Fluttering down to a door of piano keys
In the desert that casts only the shadows, like reflections,
Of the snake and the dove
And the tiny, scuttling effervescence