I can tell the passing of the clouds.
They drift over me like large black bells
that chime when the time of light is gone.
Over the forest filled with young butterflies,
the shadow mixes with the long thin branches.
I find no need to worry about the passing
of what seems like uncertain death.
The quail visit me in the afternoons,
uninvited, but curious about my presence.
So THAT’S how, so THAT’S how,
they seem to be saying.