When all the animals that could leapt up
to play our icons of virtue,
and all the animals that could dived low
that each might rise again at will,
the lapwing turned to grass and her eggs stone.
Through her field we stroll unaware.

     Like thunder enraged beasts colour the air:
all-round heroes of Aesop.
     I am the invisible one, my call
a ricochet of the north wind.
     I am grass; my eggs, stone. As seasons fade
my projects come to fruition.

We can admit we have walked a circle
with no idea of its centre.
We are not enraged beasts famed for hunting
nor hold we bright wisdom aloft.
While truth remains vital we can admit
we have found only grass and stones.

     Like a whisper perhaps too soft to mind
let all hear a voice ring nearby.
     I am the invisible one indeed
let a full moon light on my nest.
     I am grass; my eggs, stone. As seasons fade
my projects come to fruition.