Leaves of the previous autumn
are mulch between the trees,
the speckled skin of a leopard
stretching up the hill
to the charcoal rocks, slick
and jumbled, and the setting sun.
Beyond the rocks, I see
an off-white building with a red roof
and a sign
too far away to read,
and I know a road runs by it.
The sound of my feet on leaves
is not dissimilar to
the distant crunch and hiss of traffic.
Primitive men could sense
a spirit under the land,
could understand the speech
of trees. Something remains
of that, despite the cities and cars,
planes and factories,
trains and tankers, satellites drifting
like dandelion spores through space.
Something rises within -
a blade like a wing, a flame -
a song in ancient tongue -
high syllables of being
to a wedge of molten sun,
to rising of the land
toward the blazing sky.
I stumble, scattering leaves.
An unseen car growls by.
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