truth

I drag

I scrape my fingernails down the hillsides

the dark soft trees crumble off

moist

under my nails, sun-warmed like the soil in my garden on Thursdays.

Lying in the gorge my body winds its way like the river between the canyon walls

cooling, soaking in the lapping water. My elbows rest on either side, propped

luxuriously on the fearsome cliffs as 

they listen to their own names swelling between

my tongue and palate

Walla Walla. Wallula.

Crouched under the enormous firs

shivering in the gusty drizzle as I lick the dark

wet sky (grey) and the trees’ own words

Coniferous deciduous.

Here my mind is

empty.

Yet

as I

breathe in and out

Every cell breathes in and out

I breath the hills, rocky, staggered, smooth faces

I breath the childishly unpredictable wet winds, swooping up from the pavement

I breath in the trees solemn unquestioning.

and I am

full.