I open my hand, finger from palm. Look! Watching the birds fly. What we know in what we see, what we feel in what. We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,. In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,. And what we think, a breathing like the wind,. A moving part of a motion, a discovery. Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,. A sharing of color and being part of it. The afternoon is visibly a source,. Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,. Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,.

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