The stone woman rises to dance
 when the wooden man sings.

Before dawn, black clouds drift over
Topa-topa Mountain's reclusive face.

Slip down the muddy access road tramping
past sagging pagodas of wet horseshit and
fields of golden unruly hair.

           

Stones rise, puddles reflect, what the land
remembers from ages ago:
I am here to
           see, not
           observe.

A splintered post, with no sign marks a path
to the river's bare bed. Downstream painted
walls recall a life not empty anymore.