We anchor ourselves together

brace against the wind

swim the sunshine and cheat grasses

to the secret place

that grows the wildest flowers.

[they cannot see the city from their vantage

they know the white ghosts of flight against blue sky]

Up in the hills, a narrow valley,

between blistered and sun ravaged draws,

the thick scent of a green divide

in an undulating landscape of bone dry grasses;

a lush caesura in a tumult of bleached deer skeletons and well worn paths.

A tree erupts with the calling of young, hungry hawks too big for their nest.

Too young to fly.

The lupins fade to eye-shut tight white.

In my left hand a scepter of wild blooms.

In my right hand a message from the wind:

bow down, bown down, bow down

to the breeze.

I breathe the wild roses.

I cast myself into my senses.

I make merry melody with each

bend, swoop and snap of my hands

the bouquet is complete.