improvised poem

so you are this gurgle underground on the moor at night this blowhole in the peat from which this sound at this time emerges at night on the moor the grouse sound like cartoons at night from their blowholes on the moor where I lie listening to clouds that pass over like satellites so stark against the backlit blue black over the moor stars sky silence of all cosmic blowholes infinity wrung through the startled throat of a bird that just walked into my foot didn't even smell me there hear me breathing like the night breathes gurgles blows sits quiet in its history of heather of gurgling quiet blowing holes streams running beneath old so old as everything that ever ran down from a hill wet and gurgling knowing now this stirring quiet of young antiquity
.
.