the rains that fall around here

past the fork in the dust white road
beyond the shacks where we live –

(they squat without eaves
in the dark green bush
and glisten when the deluges come)

you nose the comfortable sedan
tyres crunching in the gravel
onto the lesser-known path

and, your arm resting
through the open window
we speak –

of the rains that fall around here
of the rocks that cut though the soils
of the crystal cataracts in the ridges

and of this meandering way
nicely slicing the wilds

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