Moonlight passing through a gin bottle. A tree 
          using the last of the day's light 
to inscribe its shadow 
          on a wind-flattened group of weeds. The river, 
which keeps saying its own name. Once, I didn't speak
          for a month. In those days, birds called at me 
from all directions. Sometimes, I mistook their voice for mine. 
          When I closed my eyes 
I saw shards of light. Inside the shards
          snow was falling.