A long time ago, we closed our minds to the guttural sage, the high-pitched chaparral,
to stones sounding through their own throats, and a cosmos circling the void of itself.

A crow hops a few steps ahead. Not flying, perhaps wounded,
(I think I need to be a crow.)

With this thought, Crow squawks, hops
                                                                      and flies away...

the mind
         fast as it goes.