I wake up tranced, power in hands. I'm working a forked limb -- willow or thorn or quince -- dream-walking out of my need. I'm holding this wishbone prong in the want of each fist. Up and down and around I'm marching my twig-end reach till it point. . . . as hound at the quail, to spring him from earth. In search of attachment, the chase is a chance to get hold. Not to be onto something,m not seek, nor be sought, is your dry-sand freedom, Sahara. I hurtle, I hide in my quarry-turn, inciting whatever incites me: till a source leaps out of my drought, a flood runs with me where I'm running, Flying overtakes my fli ght.