A long time ago, we closed our minds to the guttural sage, the high-pitched chaparral,
to stones sounding through their own throats, and a cosmos circling the void of itself.

Crow hops a few steps ahead of me. Not flying,
perhaps wounded. I think, I need to be a crow.

With this thought, Crow squawks, hops, flies....

the mind
         fast as it goes.