"The Raynbowe bending in the skye,Bedeckte with sundrye hewes,Is lyke the seate of God on hye,And seemes to tell these newes:That as thereby he promised,To drowne the worlde no more,So by the bloud whiche Christe hath shead,He will oure health restore."

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Branches grew from his hands, his hair. His thoughts tangled like roots in the ground. He strained upward. Pitch ran like tears down his back. His name formed his core; ring upon ring of silence built around it. His face rose high above the forests. Gripped to earth, bending to the wind's fury, he disappeared within himself, behind the hard, wind-scrolled shield of his experiences.

— Patricia A. McKillip