Any moment the sky may darken and there may be great noise, any moment like
this moment, any moment when the narrow slit of sky above becomes black and
grey, any moment like this moment when the two rivers cut into the gorge
rise up to the sky in a great rush, shouting as they move upwards in bits
and pieces--Wouldn't that be something to write home about? Wouldn't that
be a revolution to remember?--all at once among the light clearing its
throat in clips and flashes, and then any moment in the uproar, in the wet,
out of the dark all at once the sky open again, the light singing before the
earth, through the rivers rising up, through the mist ascending from the
sheer stone walls to a cloud no longer above the vertical horizon.
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The Prose Poem