I sense a plover's wing
turn in the tangy gel
of evening light.
I sense a horse's leg
touch the emerald hill
through the grass-woven net.
I sense a planet ripen
like a pear infused with honey,
ready to drop from its black bough.
I sense everything happen,
both near me and far away,
both long ago and now.
I am an echo, too responsive,
and therefore condensed as flesh and bone,
preserving its uncanny balance
not through my vigour, but because I have
too many things to ruffle me, for any one
to make a difference.