The crane waits
at the verge of the river-bed,
fish swimming in its memory.
In search of its reflection, the moon
wanders, vanishes.
Swirls of roots tear into the earth,
in hunger.
The wind, sweeping up its troubles,
hurls the heat in all directions.
Pulverized, the heart whirls
like dust in a storm.
It isn’t just the earth
that overflows through its cracks
in heat and rage.
The crane
absorbs into itself all that heat
and boils within.
If only the crane would sink into
the whirlpool of its memory
and beat its wings,
the river might gather its form once more
from the scattered drops,
and walk again.
River, watch that crane.