Two rocks lean against each other by the side of the path, forming a small tunnel that leads
into "the cavern beneath the cave."

and the poet's voice speaks from no
           crevice in the ground between
                   mid-earth and underworld
breathing fumes of what is deadly to know

From a ridge my gaze descends to windmills pumping water from a ditch. Chevron prints
of mountain bike point forward and back in time. A young woman with a ponytail of shiny
black hair swinging like a pendulum, runs past me, moist in the desiccating heat. A quick
smile    and
she's gone.