Death of an ImmigrantParakeets have no use for the ferryman.
I've seen them die feet furled and sails flapping,
Though they cannot travel, held in my hand;
If I let them, they would crash among the furniture and still
Their wings would frantically beat. I guess it is a stroke.
They are unsoothed by the touch of my fingers
Their eyes do not recognize me, they have seen
I cannot say. Some beacon
That to us must lose all meaning during the daily flood of Lethe
A light from Ellis Island.
Towards it they fling themselves, wild once again,
Unaware they are sharing moments that
To me are precious; for I am cradling a sudden stranger
Who does not need the bus fare from my pockets.
Wizard of the WaterwoodThe Indarin say that when the Wizard of the Waterwood wished to select his heir, he summoned his three disciples, that he might set them a task which would judge between them. On his bed in the mere the Wizard lay, wizened and old beyond count of years, with his gray beard-tangles clambering down the bed and floating out every which way upon the shallow water around his bed, like the very roots of the willows which grew all around his house, bowing their heads and their boughs in protective reverence towards his dwelling. Candles there were upon his table and upon his mantle and upon his hearth; for no fire would the Wizard have of wood, but burned coal only, which gives warmth and heat for cooking, but poor light and an eels'-oil lamp hung smoking from his low ceiling; by the light of these did his disciples gather, and knelt about his bed.
"Answer me this question," he charged them, as he had begun oft before "whence issues the source of the Waterw