I stepped out that spring night aware of my foolishness.
It was like a fairy tale, being caught up and drawn by a mysterious sound.
Of a spinning wheel, I scorned myself. But I went out, and in the night
the sound was strange; I could not tell its distance, and had some trouble
deciding on its direction though I tried to blame the bull's hill for that.
Blocking sound, changing it.
It was a multiple sound. Like strings and winds a strange child of violin
and bagpipe. I told myself, marking my distance, What else?
Double-throated music strange to me, compelling, haunting, intimating
grand realms uncertain where winds blew through illimitable distances
and brought with the fine dust also the treasures and the stories.
I cut through the round hills and standing on the shoulder of one saw