I walk without books...

I walk without books,
light as a spider thread
of Indian summer.
I walk through streets
where it’s so warm
that shadows have taken off their hoods—
the shadows of trees,
and of a sleeping magnolia,
and the mountains above it all.
So the shadows are warming themselves,
because the sun is full.

My soul has empty pockets,
and the heart of my heart
is calm like a child
when it sleeps.

Below is a river—
a mountain river.
Big stones
children once threw from the bridge—
those stones in the river
just sit there,
as if inventing something.

The river goes quietly
at noon in the light
of the heavenly sun,
winding between houses
and bare trees,
and shining like a Chinese dragon.

And I am made of straw
and I meet the wind.
Warmth comes to me
like a friend.

This mountain river
is wild like a girl without front teeth.
Now this river moves
slowly, like the root growing
of a great tree.

I walk slowly,
looking at the Chinese dragon,
and this feeling
that my beard is growing fast—
I am in no hurry.