I want to be true to what I have heard. It was

Sweet to hear music last night. There is so

Much joy in being afraid of the world together.

The snow in the branches, the sadness in your hands,

The foot tracks in the mud, the old Inca faces,

The trout who wait all year for the acorns to descend.

The sitar player is so much like the crow, who rises

Each morning in the sky above the black branches

And cries six cries with no memory of the light.

Every musician wants his fingers to play faster

So that he can go deeper into the kingdom of pain.

Each note on the string calls for one note more.

The hand that has written all these sounds down

Is like a bird who wakes in the middle of the night

And starts out toward its old nest on the mountain.

Robert, I don’t know why you would have such

Good luck these days. Those few lines about the crows

Crying are better than a whole night of sleep.