The brow of the mountain, furrowed under the wearing centuries, is now cleared.
And the titan there lying opens, tenses his sprawled form, and uncurls momentarily
a distant fist bleached like sandstone in the Arizona desert. And the cactus flowers
are hurried in their blooming, and sputter out premature. And the herons shadows
warp and twist with the changing landscape and the snakes do not remember to be
afraid and are eaten, unwary. But it is not the fullness of time, and the fist curls again
and the brow clouds and the fog rolls in over San Francisco, which hardly felt the
unsteady earth and its briefest quiver in its collected sleep. But the herons feast and remember
the day, and the cactus flowers litter the desert and dry in wind-blown heaps.
