The old man at dusk
comes around the bend puffing his cigar
and a bat shadows me
as I walk towards the sun, its alchemy
golding pine needles on the ground,
igniting grape vines.
Hills recline in the distance
smudged by a hand working in pastel,
soft and slow the line where mountains meet violet
and clouds lay back smoking fiery pipes.
Village, I am wordless.
At a nearby campsite, a grill is about to be lit,
about to blister some sausage. Blister until
twigs catch, vines chatter in the flames
like gossips with nothing on their minds.
