This is the morning of my flight; The dawn of the wet ivy carpet forest; Forest timeless; forest graybeard; Bloodstained second growth forest erotic. I strip away my clothes, Step, rocks cutting my feet, Into the Corycian stream; Stream interminable; stream of sensation; Flash flood hazard stream of consciousness. I raise my head to rain sewing spring; The branches silhouetted in pale gray virgin morning light; Here I can tremble just as timidly as the twigs; Whisper just as softly as the mice cowering from the hawk's cry. | 
