|Photo by Nate Smith|
In the baking rubble valley of August I climbed
herd before me, clad in their wool coats,
and chewed the apricots whom last August’s sun ripened
on the tree. And when the lifeline was cut
they basked on rooftops, turning dry and sticky sweet.
The chipped shards of the valley lie in heaps;
its old washes, deep troughs, cut straight downhill.
Somewhere deep below, cold water courses,
and far downhill by our tiny streamside house
its cut wall weeps delicious clear flows.
After a slow sunrise, the morning haze filled space.
Watering a barley field, I cupped water from the channel
in my hand, and dripped it over my grateful head.
High wispy mare’s tails formed, and passed,
and from the mountains white dreams bubbled and spread.
The division between dark-barked tree and apricot is imaginary:
there is no fine line; their life is not-two, not-one.
An unnamed force runs through creation, each movement, fast or slow.
Does consciousness string all this together?