I have always
already dreamed
myself in this air
left long ago:

not for its taste
of hills and fires,
but for how
it is not disturbed
by the breeze
that licks down 
like a tragic tongue,
causing a tingle on the skin,
over lips,
taking speech. 
One here only knows heat.

Silence hangs in everything;
all that matters is to continue
moving upslope.  A bird is landing;
rock, scrub brush,
flowers, sage,
dog's ear.  Now a vulture

is working long, loose looping cyphers:
writes and erases, writes and erases

across the sky, zeros, haloes,
suspending nothing
     
it does not mean.  An oak leaf
wags upon a tree. 

Climbing, we do not speak.  Nothing
moves but
with heat,

a breeze shimmering golden grass,
dead grains awaiting fire or water.