they are kicking up dust on a fire trail
they are high on it deep in the ancient mountains
high enough for vivid alpine flowers
electric reds and campfire oranges
conspicuous as traffic lights
knuckles of sandstone punch at dragging feet
tired ligaments gnaw into jelly bone
it is a race against nightfall
against the falling sun
and the cold already creeping down its filaments
to curl around clouds
like rusty wire around a sheep's carcass
mosquitoes and flies swapping shifts without a word
the rush hour wind
the magpies and all their headlines
you see, they must go down with it
the sun
low into the valley
down down until their ears pop
and the wind is nothing but a ghost high up
in the trees hissing, hissing
at everything to stay exactly where it is
they must get down
to where the water gurgles
like a lizard having its stomach tickled
because where they are the moon
is a block of ice on your shoulder
but down there in the valley
it is the soft butter of your uncle's memory
finding its way among the trees