In this land of water and mist, the sages descended from
the mountains as tall waterfalls and assumed the face of
salmon leaping upstream.

Water drives around a bend, sounding like a note drawn
through a muted trumpet, the one Miles played, sending
psalms careening through a universe to where, at some
point, all certainties disappear.

Lines gauge themselves. Words, or visions, rise and fall.
In the end neither a bang nor a whimper will make sense
anymore.