The gently winding river,
Drunk by the spear-point lake,
Emerges from its base,
As a deep, haft of blue,
Widening, deepening, warding the hump-backed mountains—
Peaks rising into the white-misted blue.
Southwest the resurrected river flows,
Past a moon-mirror lake,
Away from the vary-greened lands were man scratches for food,
Leaving a geometric garden—traced in, circles, squares, rectangles and deep green swirls—in its wake.
The garden spreads to the banks of a lesser river, snaking northward.
Past a many-fingered lake.
-Viewed from 34,000 Feet from the window above the right engine of a Boeing 737
He: Gilgamesh: Into the Face of Time
