I am the clouds
rising from the volcanic basin.
I am the shadows
racing the Doré
as it ambles north.
I am the hills
woven with pines and mist.
I am the dart of lizards
chasing flies on hot stone walls.
I am the jazzy full of coffee
and the dry
of last night's red wine.
I am the rumble
of log-laden trucks
in the sub-zero winter.
I am the listener
to tales of home
on the balcony
above the half-tamed garden
of cherry trees
and hard mountain soil.
