steps on a precipice
the ivory trumpets sound at night
under sickle moonlight
as the solar disc
is hurled out of the night sky
mountains
all we ever eat are mountains
not rivers that could quench
this thirst
not villages for us to bathe in blood
nor forests to burn
within our throats
but these piles of uprising stone
slabs and boulders and slides
so scratchy on the gullet
so heavy in the gut
to weigh our wings to the ground
these giants to tackle
that only time can topple
yet our roars pour out
into the night air
carried on the high winds
that usually carry us on our way
this shrilling thunder
throws them from their beds
pulls their courage from their spines
and curls them as a fern in reverse
this power pulls
it tears the weary from their heights
throwing them back
into the ovens within the Earth
with certainty all will succumb
to this gravity
but not yet, not tonight
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