Among the flowers of my Persian carpet vines sprout curl twine me into fields of silk and wool. Sliding through warp and weft, I hear the rustle of thread grasses, and my nostrils fill with the pungency of feral cats, I taste the dryness of dust, and the dampness of a blue silk river runs through my ears. A blend and blur of color mark the horizon spots of russet and black resolving into a hunt undisturbed by my addition to the scene. Arabian steeds damp dark with silken sweat, silent as Attic shapes, prance and wheel through date palms and trees of fiery-fruited pomegranate. Turbaned caliphs, bows slung across their backs, chase a leopard forever peering over his shoulder. An arrow loosed never hits its mark eternally suspended by woven threads. Trees stand in an expectancy of silence as I move within zig-zags of light and shadow. My arms slide round the leopard's golden ruff and I am bound by threads of color to be hunted forever through fields of silk and wool, chased by frozen horses, another player in the weaving fields of Bokkhara.