A River Is a Danger

The mouse we heard did clearly say the casket was a key. And then the window blew, and little jewels flew; their piercings sharp and tiny ran us through. Within the holes we found strange books that rocked and whittled at the time. When they were done we saw, we said, a fever as a rhyme. Tis nothing left and nothing more, tis nothing’s bliss and nothing’s door; the mouse said that the window was a lock that led to thunder. And in the mouse’s tiny eyes, we saw, we said, the wonder. A river is a danger free, an eagle is a skybird, the case at hand is mystery, the hero is her whispered word, and every hand’s good shape and form is from the master of the storm, a thread leads back, through all good traces to the living source of graces. The casket said the mouse, is little jewels flying through us. The door took tempo, moved the knight, and very nearly slew us. And then the mouse’s laughter rang as pure as morning’s temple; we found the shattered maps all bright with burnings, we found the mouse’s mastery was scent, and all wise yearnings. The mouse, we heard, did clearly say, this casket is a window, and then the key fell from our hands, and rang there where the master stands. We looked and watched, but none could see — its shape a ghost of fairy, its shape a moonlit tree.

— from Utover (Beyond)