It. It? What is it at the source?
We can’t know it by stealth or force
Or guess at its speed or course.
Like one word buried in a book
(Moving like a trout in a brook
That will not rise to the eye,
That will not rise to the fly),
Read once and lost between covers,
It stymies the question — hovers
Just beyond comprehension,
Beyond time and dimension.
It depends on what you know
Less than water needs wind for snow
Or an arrow a broken bow.
