almost ritual this hour
when bare wrinkled feet
walk home on asphalt,

eucalyptus groves
a dark riverbed where
language follows stones

as though birds, startled
by a moulting sound
quietly dispersed

the donkey’s bray
broke loose on
shadow, a dusk haze

like many words
from a single root
down green slopes

tongues escape
like ash
on west wind

on tin roofs
a skin of light
that will not leak

a sediment cliff
on the far bank
that will not grow old

the black sand of river
that will undress itself
to swim into ocean.