Somehow, you had to
find sanctuary from
the dust that rose

and caught the sun,
turning it to powdered
gold.  What did you
want?  What every-
one wants.  But you
were hungry.  You
had to eat.  You had
to kill something
to stay alive.  When
you reached the
plateau, having been
allowed to live this
long, you suspected
you might live longer.
The wind grew stronger.
You could see an image
forming in the clouds.
It testified in favor
of the accused.  You
saw the head was
bent, in prayer,
in supplication.  If
you found a fish
in the stream, you
could kill it with
a prayer and just
above the gorge
you’d kick off your
muddy boots and
beg the sky for
patience to return
before the mountain
cats and forest wolves
set your spirit free.
Before the waves of
guilt were eaten by
your own need.