I was low on gas, but I was buzzing with five

books like bees’ wings, open in my head.

Wind pasted my hair to my face as the

Owens Valley spread out before me.

Ideas rushed my cheeks with pink

like the interior of a tide pool:

the wet rock

the loose floorboard

the sap on the cone

the trees that move their arms.

Oh, believe that we can hear them sing!

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