doesn’t need wind to dance.
Tiny dark olive hands wave
you onward; though there are snakes,
ticks, holes deep enough to wrench
an ankle, there’s no choice but to run.
The sun dozes just above your shoulder,
leeching the green from everything.
Cows nip the grasses’ tips and chew
Hills exist to run down
too fast to stop at the bottom.
The legs are scourged clean;
in a similar way, the thoughts.
If you pause long enough, you’ll hear
the susurrations of the dead, begging.