The dry, black branches of winter seen in flight
run singing. Come here to drink
translucent drops on fresh leaves.
Come over here, and try to light that wick.

If you descend from the summit, humming, perhaps I can
see you, perhaps at the river’s curve I can find again
the water of the oasis spilling between leaves
of poplars, and there is a nest that sings among the willows.