WHile I walked on, and on, never heeding,
a woman turned into the shadows of the wood,
her eyes grieving. She turned again, and called,
but I heard nothing: a dream walking, a dream.

There will be, she thought, some evil coming,
and he will not know its name.

Later that day, I walked out to the intake pipes
of the City Water Works. The river shone
like bayonets, like drawn swords, or any iron
field driven by an iron wind. Some other woman
came there then, and talked of Margaret Mitchell.
"She used to sit here, with her little machine,
pouring out words for hours, till the late sun
would drive her off the rocks awhile. I thought,
when I saw you, you were going to kill yourself."

I was; or maybe not. Mitchell, she wrote here,
and didn't die until later: in front of a taxi.
It finds you when it wants you: not before.