I have more in kin with mountains
than any human kind.
Held staunch against the wind,
the embrace of fading pines,
and proud head resolute and bare,
seeming holy or defiant.
I have more in kin with rivers
than the city’s babbling horde.
They forge down mountains, cold as blood,
through gulleys tossed and deep;
without foreknowing, dim-lit eyes,
and ever place the home – they journey still to find.
I am more a kin to thunder
meeting brief across the sky.
I name the ocean, name the wind,
I name the city’s strangled cry.
As it rolls in appelation,
the tangled cracks – beneath the skin,
the storm’s breach, the trembled sigh.