The hot shadows are pouring out from under the trees,
Draping themselves over tussocks and hollows.
We mirror them.
Peeling off clothing
Like dust scraped off of oiled skin,
Everything is found fresher underneath;
Rejuvenated and rejubilated
In the settling air,
The wondrous curve of limbs and twisting, artful trunks.
And we are damp against the baking earth,
The drone of crickets,
The quivering leaves.
The line of mountains softening into horizon,
The sky
Forged into beaten gold.
