I All day at the river's lip           looking out at the procession of grey rocks           with bowed heads, gliding millennium by millennium                out into the depths and the heavy women, muscled Zuñiga sculptures      climbing up out of the water,           on their heads, washing in glinting metal tubs,           basalt-black hair like swallows' wings           curved down their bronze backs. At times what the eye can see           the heart misses completely—so the green breast           of a hill across the cobalt slash of the Xingú      shorn of its primary forest                is filled with the plaintive cries of grasses                     and the palms shine on                in the glaze and dazzle of noon,           the moon-white cattle wade                up to their thickened waists                     in the resinous light.