" Whose voices carry on the wind: they send
their rambling dactyls through the morning air
with the dark fret-and-flutter of wings,
a cry feathered between syllables,"
"Sometimes I have the feeling that words lead a
private existence of their own, apart from us,
and that when we speak or write,
especially in moments of strong emotion,
we do little more than hitch a ride on some
obliging syllable or accommodating phrase. "
Poetry as Isotope:
The Hidden Life of Words