Breathing in the rank smell of horses, breathing out a memory of a school class
in which a boy, clothes reaking of the stables in which he worked, was mocked
by students, including myself.

   I work my way down
   into the dry riverbed

   where two dead trees
   were recently planted.

All around me are fields of rusty weeds "where the ores of the earth contain the
'seeds' of their own future transformation," while history mixes fertile earth with
the ceaseless letting of blood.