We take the slow route up the ridge
through the sparse clumps of dried grass, over rocks rouged by twilight.
At the top, instead of continuing on, looping down and around
in constant motion as if this were the only way
to ensure the next moment’s arrival,
Stillness so seldom left to ripen on its branch
and fall of its own free will.
We sit on the bare spine of earth,
coyotes singing yip yi yi yi yiiii
as the horizon rises towards night.