The leaves of centuries reach across the year. A strand of Guinevere's hair like sunlight weaves through darkled sprays its noiseless destiny. But where are the robins? Even the sparrow is still. Welsh rain (a ragged, cold collapse of water to drench the oaks, the mice, and me) falls out of Camelot down the age and stops. But where are the robins? Even the sparrow is still. The grey air dripping, dripping, thirsts for song. Stumbling across a slumber of summer sounds, I wave the woods awake with Merlin hands. But where are the robins? Even the sparrow is still. Sudden in every tree, the stir of a wing - a surge in the throats of robins everywhere! Across the seasons, over the "silence," dare the lovely collisions of an Arthurian spring.