How the hills have been
lifting their skirts
to this gauzy can can
and sunlight blazes
streaks and streams
down through the clouds.
All is blue and gold and rimmed with silver.
Just one pink violent slash
and I go twisting
through the break neck moss
to the place that is
wet sister to our valley.
Fires burn by the side of the road,
creeping like feuds.
Dead gums gather and reach.
A round moon chases me in
up river.
A cattle dog runs me out.
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