in the white grass
there is no end
of birds
or flies
or snorting ballerina
javelinas
They stay as permanent
as stone and sky
despite the wind
whispering
the minutes
And the birds slowly turning
into songs
High above the rock, trees wave,
berries are forever waiting,
branches reaching,
Leaves fill out the chasm
with the happiness of being,
the lichen makes love
to the rock
Dead sticks caress soft grasses
and grandmother tree
is as a child
knowing what she's seen
is but a shadow
rippling
at the edge of evening
