Silence requires effort, an effort to give mystical language a musical intelligence. We’ll go bathe in the Hungarian woods where there are unisons in the branches. We are one thing the cosmos is doing in the heat and solidity of this moment. All sentences end, and you can’t stop the clock, not even for Heather. Shall I write this down, that I have thought of trying to hammer words into posterity, enchantments of rhythm and your nearness, a root sound, a detonation in song, a penny falling from the clouds? How black and Protestant is my autumn–moving, intrinsically Cherokee.