Our Last Fall

These rocking heights are swaying low 

Gathering dreams through an open door 

Yawning pines--biting cheek 

Squinting now, fighting sleep 

Listless wind blown through leaves 

Put me down where I think 

Where water drips with birds that sing 

As wood flutes play a melody, 

Ancients channel my vision-song 

To sleep the sleep by a tribal calling.