““Byrn speaks and I understand him without effort, his words as clear as spring water. / Ask a favour of the plover, he says. Borrow her eyes. / Then I am flying through the air, and the flying is his song, and I am / the flying, and his words are golden ribbons scrolling about me, bearing / me along. I see the plover's wing and I am the plover. Suspended. / Above the moor. There is no longer any I, only All. / Simple. Vast. Unknown. / All to be forgot on waking, like dew on a spiderweb.””
