Thomas Cole, "View from Mount Holyoke, Northampton, Massachusetts, after a Thunderstorm—The Oxbow," 1836
The slow river meanders, taking its time in laying down the silt burden, its curves wide and looping, almost tied off in spooning crescents: next flood brings the oxbowed embrace.
Or when our fingers touched on the planchette, light as birds, and what had been inert began to move in the snail’s own spiral, cochleoid, spelling out our imitation of Merrill letter by l e t t e r in adagio magic.
And this last languid wandering, time bending backwards for us, palming us (as if we were peas in a sleight) off on some other cosmos, some other age; decelerate, smiling, laugh as we stop.