The swallows and bats at their night work.
And I at mine. [...]
No voices of children, no alphabet in the wind:
Only this silence, the strict gospel of silence,
to greet me,
Opened before me like a rare book.
I turn the first page
and then the next, but understand nothing.
The deepening twilight a vast vocabulary
I've never heard of.
I keep on turning, however:
somewhere in here, I know, is my word.
Charles Wright, from "A Journal of the Year of the Ox," in Zone Journals (Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 1988)