The Wind resembles the Emptiness it fills.
I cannot tell which is which except in songs.
An earthworm ground from passing through a sparrow
becomes tibia marrow further up the food chain.
‘We have that,’ says the cat, and I say, ‘What?’
‘Tibia marrow,’ the cat answers. ‘Men have wind.’

We sit in companionable silence in the darkness.
The clouds that rain on us block out the moon.
The metallic music made in the sailboats’ rigging
as the wind whips up the harbour’s surface riles
what I’ve learned to call imagination.
‘I see a god almighty,’ says the cat.

‘On the furthest sloop,’ the cat adds. ‘Do you see it?
‘Look, there’s one more on each yardarm. Will they fight?’
‘They do not always fight,’ I whisper. We both watch
and when the cat sees I see nothing we both sigh.
The first heron of the morning glides above sedately.
In the sodden earth behind us birds hunt worms.