Caressed by a finger brimming with static electricity
slowly and without any upset. This is an omen:
thunderstorms always come to the valley so naturally!
Soft wind pushes a soft brown, gentle fingertip
with a rustle a little soul that binds up all the living things
touches them everywhere, inside to out: plump yellow leaves
fruit is dripping its glossy fats onto the velveteen moss...
after that inside its gradually opening body the thunderstorm
rises, is set free causes a great drone of tremor in the valley
perhaps storms here are no different from those of other places
what I'm sure of is in the valley where shadow and brightness twine
the thunderstorm can make firm the bones of birds
and it seems as if flowers and plants burst forth in an instant
yelling ah let me live a thousand years like running water!