A etched cry in the high hills.
A cloud shadow runs from the gully to the rise:
a small uncertain thing shifts and turns
under the hunting skies
Tell me the story as you heard it first
when the rain was rattling pots by the door;
a small uncertain thing gathers itself
and gathers itself once more.
You remember the king who studied the dust
where the rain had written his epitaph?
The clouds went kiting away that day
and swept the floor with a laugh.
A small thing dodges left where the ticking
of white and black caught the eye:
grows sure-footed as the beat quickens,
and dodges again to the right.
Say what you like for the hunter,
say what you like for the prey:
the game goes to the swift and the wary
as the cloud shadow runs away.