Dust from gravel roads lingering in the sun. Atchison County State Lake, September 2012.
Waking in the Middle of the Night by Robert Bly
I want to be true to what I have heard.
It was so sweet to hear music last night.
There is so much joy in being afraid
of the world together.
The snow in the branches,
the sadness in your hands,
The foot tracks in the mud,
the old Inca faces,
The trout who wait all year
for the acorns
The sitar player is so much
like the crow, who rises
Each morning in the sky above
the black branches
And cries six cries with no memory
of the light.
Every musician wants his fingers
to play faster
So that he can go deeper into
the next kingdom of pain.
Each note on the string calls
for one note more.
The hand that has written
all these sounds down
Is like a bird who wakes in the middle
of the night
And starts out toward its old nest
on the mountain.
Robert, I don’t know why you
would have such Good luck today.
Those few lines about the crows
Crying are better than a whole night