Like the river’s way in want of rain, we go. We come, nascent as fire in the
fuel-heavy height. Thrown into a valley of wind as inflamed mud. A brown fire
of flood that burns to a sea. Only to go, we in a hot wind the dying tree sucks in.
We, who will come for a century of buried seed. Who go from deep canyons
of elder wood only to come preeminently as radiant things. On a mountaintop. Shrouded in a thunder gust. Spent & combustible, the sapless that suck
at tinder light. Endlessly rocking, those that nurse from teats of cloud
to come, to go like the withdrawn, old sea across dry grass.
Water
