I was seeking cathedrals in those days

I was seeking ruins in those days. The matters must be precarious, and falling. I found a moorish donjon within a hash of walls, later a lone avant-bec in mid-stream; but ghosts in carriages, coaches, cars hazed them, by means of illumination, and made vistas. I left by bicycle; more carriages, coaches, cars passed, until, far behind and susceptible, I became aware of bells communicating within a flock, and thereafter was among them - sheep - who, reluctantly, breaking into faster paces, swarmed about me. We had met on the valley road.

The keep had been massively foursquare, as wide and deep as high, top as thick as flanks, a kind of wall and tower at once. "The palpable mysteries of stylistic difference in war-making matter" - I muttered mi-voix - "setting aside possible practical advantages, must themselves have had an instrumental value in making war."

On the other hand. The bridge-but, shouldering the stems of its arches. As I was looking at it a sandpiper flew behind and then perched, lightly, on the ruffling mid-flood; I blinked, as they do in books, and realized that a section of fallen arc must there nearly break the brilliantly deceptive water.

Around our ruins the dance is dense.

The shepherd, when I met him, was dressed in corduroys and dark wool, and carried a long, light stick. We saluted as I passed. The bells, his bells, propagated a second, audible, valley and nested it within the first, visible, one.