A crow flies below the crescent moon at twilight as the first star appears in the darkening sky. The sound of running water from a nearby stream mixes with the voices of the dying day. Something from the deep is sounding, but for who?—and what does it all mean?
With a thread of fragrance
I tie my poem
to the sail of the moon
Avec un fil de parfum
j’attache mon poème
au voile de la lune
Rooted in Love 