& beating a trail up a mountain, happy paths
sprung with weed. The low-hung twiggy brush

on fire with promise on the promontory.
Everything remains temporary until it’s not.

Somewhere in the mountains we stumble.
Fog rolls in, another actor on the stage, all sodden

& nomadic. The loosely-gathered gravels
strewn about are typical of gravity-plagued

geographies: a temblor would set them loose.
Hard to keep a footing in the lands of karst,

thrust, vale & dell. Ungird yourself.
If the words seem antiquated, that’s because.