The sky still listened when the waters spoke.
                Up from the dark rocks, into the air's caress.

A cold wind slides over my face. Puddles freeze, but
the question remains: When did What am I? dawn in
a mind that in its depths is still only half-enlightened?

Turning over rocks and other mineral markers here is
another a sign that the Anthropocene had begun; but
it takes more than fifteen minutes to cure it in the sun.

The first to stand up straight was the funniest of them:
the kidder, the trickster, the one whose balls hung low,
or whose breasts were swollen with Neanderthal milk.

Laughter from shrubs native to this land. Knowing we
are rooted together, you are at home in this morning's
dew, while I'm just
passing
through.

 

 

The sky: R. Char. From, "Lascaux: Black Stags." M. Hutchinson, trans.