Wind thrashes the trees. At the near

edge of the clearing the camp dogs

cower, won’t approach. Though the guide

changed his shirt his boots reek of blood.

Stooping beneath the trees, rising,

circling with a close, level stride,

women collect the deadfall—all

of it—armfulls bristling, brittle.

Two walking together bring in

three limbs, stout, shattered, for the axe.

In the hour when the wind is down

at last, before the coming dark,

they construct the tinder pile, boughs

broken to size, latticed. Each tier

settled across its broader base,

skeletal, unlike a house. Now

they lay the fresh-cut logs over

the kindling. Night is falling when

their work, woven of wood and air,

is touched with a fluttering torch.

In a world that thrives

without eternity

bells ring—

tongues sing—

oars swing—

Let the tom-toms

thrum! thrum!

to the roar

of open water—

Your soul

is a wild river

that seeks the sea.