The field
of olive trees
opens and closes
like a fan.
Above the olive grove
a sunken sky,
and a cold dark rain
of morning-stars.
Half-light and rushes tremble
at the river’s edge.
Grey air crinkles.
The olive trees
are freighted
with cries.
A flock
of captive birds
moves long long tails
in the gloom.

Federico Garcia Lorca