Be like a clouded leopard in the tired field of paint horses, I'll run like that, her frozen music and poetry of the eyes, fangs out, but no more killing, the gentle sway of thin, church-like thistle, they look like Saturn rings in orbit, orange and translucent, and the humbling white light from a sun shard stabbing its way through the sloping, dark, scarred bark and stalwart bank of trees, the somber and soft red clay of this place, yellow cherries in beautiful, ornate, Belorussian buckets and black blooms of underwater flowers, dead darlings and a fallen child with a drowned doll in full rigor mortis by a red, razor sharp rock in the riverbed.