I’m here for the quiet, not for the view,
Although the view has handsome aspects: snow
On tilted peaks that ring the reservoir,
A single scarf of lacy white, a veil
Behind which nothing but stone faces hide,
The mirror of the reservoir itself,
Its ripples made by far-off cranes and ducks,
A giant dome of blue and barren sky
Without a single contrail scoring it.
A black-headed duck appears from the reeds
And barks a hoarse, hard squawk that startles me.
His species I can’t name nor recognize,
And I don’t want to, neither. Otherwise,
The water coming down the hill is all
The sound I hear. Enough. Let’s stop this here.
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