Path

Birds should be heard and not seen

— Their voices become then so pure —

The sound of the trees

Breaking through

Walls that the sun just inflames:

Snail shine on the leaves,

Mesquite beans hanging down to be taken,

Cactus hide that seems to dissolve

And the ice plant that seems to glow from within.

It’s that time of the day when

Brown grasses are the emperors of the world,

When the boughs display angelic realms,

When the lowest are the most filled with light

And the dirt holds a promise

In the silence of the dust

Floating to meet
Our pith and vapor,

We stars.