Fortune-hunting is done at toe-sprint
If you stop now –
when find come up,
to trees with forests in their tops.
Thunder fuse just hides,
must seek long days,
comes out at new
districts, lands of the soul oh, bright sands,
shores long and short.
What does one do when one flies.
Falls, forgets, yes, that’s it.
That, downwards, but with upwards-stretched.
Yes, hands and clouds that lift.
Sails then out among stars
like that with little
pig in one’s arms,