Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew . . .
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes,
So, I place here the following images, one of human made structures (almost all straight lines), the other of a natural made being (almost no straight lines, but rather curves) as an aid to memories of what Zagajewski's poetry called up for me: