It was those few important degrees above ice as we raced through the wet
forest this morning among the green aliens.
The desiccated husks of anise had no sweetness for the sky.
The river was too busy to look up, pushing hard, his black skin steaming.
Silent as the future, deer flitted behind the screens of stone and wood.

The new cob sun annealed the flaws of the quiet world.
“Do this,” the stones whispered, but all I could do was gulp at the air.