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
