Weeks after the last rainfall, a hill slid down to mosquito wrigglers
hatching in brackish water. In the dust nearby a tree with no roots
has been uprooted.

Every day the path becomes clearer. Hoofs, tires, shoes, dislodge
and replace loose stones. Looking toward the hills, I re-weave the
gods from mythology's transient threads into a loop, an uroboros
being the most ancient mudra. 

Thus the path is no
clearer than before.