If we have no sticks for fire
when we come to the land of no water
buttes with wind-scoured skulls
tumbleweed spiny scrub
we metamorphose into stones
some ghost white some clay red
No one knows why
but there seem two choices
to go with those too occupied
to consider what would sustain them
when they come to the place
of rock and no water rock and no fire
or to go apart like one distracted
by a beckoning far off within
indistinct yet resonant
who went wherever the trail wanted to go
and the blackberry thicket
tucked itself in dust settled into dust
When she came to the valley of stones
the stones began to hum