As I wind down the pines

its the lines on your face

playing on your face



Without thinking so much

as abandoning thought

I went through open country

over water meadows streams

lakes and wires and roosts in reeds

to a nest in the hole of

this dead

tree.



To play without stopping or pause

not for silence not for applause

not without thinking

and thinkings abandoning thought



As I wind down the pines

its the lines on your face

playing on your face