1/11/93

Hills

This place
It’s dark frame worthy of museum placement
In twilight as gold as it is green and gray

The time
Elements a patient sculptor without handtools, schedule
Nature paints coats of sage and other brush strokes

The sky
Full of life even after dropping its payload
My feet move across the palette mixing, mixing

We reside within jewels on the folds of a robe
The prints of steps of my kind and others
Our waste and scent join the collage
To see we are one with it

This place
These hills.