As Autumn arrives, green plants slip into moist brown earth,
mountains gaze down through morning mist to consciously
plowed fields, and a car speeding past cows grazing on the
verge of a backcountry road. Are there caves here, rock art?

Over eighty years ago a poet wrote: "Bird man dead and
bison dying," in the deep haunts of a cave, where animal
dreams cast humanity's highest arts.

When algorithms become our genius and gnosis is what
we think we know, "Drive, he sd, for / christ’s sake, look /
out where yr going."