The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Saturday, February 13, 2016

It Takes Few Kinds

They made very little of such events - Horses rising out of the water, the dark hair of the riders beautiful in the moonlight...

Where one moment you would see nothing except the peaceful silvering of the water - Great blond horses rising slowly into the sky, the dark and the beautiful hair of the riders trailing down ... down ...
The dark and the beautiful hair trailing down through the moonlight - No, they made very little of such things.

One moment you would see only the water ...
Then great icy blond horses would begin to rise slowly into the sky . . . And the dark and the beautiful hair of the maiden riders would trail down, through the moonlight - But, actually, they made very little of things along that general line.

--Kenneth Patchen


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