I can hear the baby quail, they’re telling me, from in the hay bales and chirping like little frogs. While they themselves **** back their bog pockets, bloom, press the weak wood, and leak to me. The trickle-slap pipistrelle in subito notes, that hit and fall, that explain to me so frantically. crooning to me so mutually and between themselves, like organs pumping air into each other.
The birds sail on it over fields relying on the attitude of the night, feeling out its hot rushes. In sensory geography, dependent on a mood of its own. In an ocean, emancipated from the moon. The sky-lung, plays its shivering reeds Where the spores, the sycamore, shattering in crochets, quavers, in minims, on any mistral score are mooring till but a touch of direction. It hears all of what my fingers feel.
It tastes all of which my eyes are witless. The asp in the verge tasting me with undulating flick of forked tongue in aromatic echolocation, both received and given by all. The curious noses of foxes between the furious foxglove sifting out the berries of effort, of strain and sweat in fur haunting out from the stems. There they find the scared, shouting in the language of the animal.
And when the colours leave the flowers with the day the night is painted in flavoursome air. The night which licks at your ear, the night that chatters amongst itself, sonic charybdis, whirling in the moth-light. The dark side of the earth is facing me.