From the East a river falls, through venom dales, with mire and clods, godly slough, as is recognized. The Deities into imagination prance, coltish, even fresh of desperation. The troupe of Deities en masse bring gravity low and firm. True rocks, true planetary quiver on the plain, true spice of wind and formal rain. From East, invigorated just this minute, and to the embracing nest that is west. One named impulse brings the spear of lightning. Another vibrates to the tune of thunder. Note how easy the word seems, echo upon echo. Listen again, the true note begins.
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