These are songs we rehearse
Only to ourselves.
In the thick stagnation
When the wind fell away,
And the sun is all that is left.
This time of smoke
And old valleys
Sitting low, in their once verdant chairs,
Bosomy ranges now creaking, tight,
Under their own thirsty landscapes.
In this time of waiting,
Rhythms are scribbled across a dry creek bed:
Brittle choirs of sand and pebble,
Playing to a listless audience,
Muted in dust.