These are songs we rehearse
Only to ourselves.
Feigning patience,
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.
Shaken Rain 