Like a wave rebounded, in spume off rocks
though slowly slowly almost still
or imperceptibly astir,
that white fume, that cloud along the mountain.
Like manta rays I’ve seen on videos
the shades of clouds move sometimes rapidly
in silence over ridges down the valleys
leaping fir-trees and gliding meadows
and paths in meadows. Fifty Autumnal tides
almost have worn the shores of me,
swift as a hummingbird in looking back,
interminable as daydream in a prison.