by Linda Gregg    Something was pouring out. Filling the field    and making it vacant. A wind blowing them    sideways as they moved forward. The crying    as before. Suddenly I understood why they left    the empty bowls on the table， in the empty hut    overlooking the sea. And knew the meaning    of the heron breaking branches， spreading    his wings in order to rise up out of the dark    woods into the night sky. I understood about    the lovers and the river in January.    Heard the crying out as a battlement，    of greatness， and then the dying began.    The height of passion. Saw the breaking    of the moon and the shattering of the sun.    Believed in the miracle because of the half heard    and the other half seen. How they ranged    and how they fed. Let loose their cries.    One could call it the agony in the garden，    or the paradise， depending on whether    the joy was at the beginning， or after