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| South of Cahas, toward Roanoke |
still is, in a way.
But the ride to real home
goes through hidden mountain draughts
known perhaps to the hiker,
the farmer,
and to Mahala the Totero.
Not to all.
See the rises,
she whispers.
Hear the dancers on the wind.
Press your toes soft into moss-blackened
ground.
North, busy-ness, livelihood.
To the mountains south,
fence-building,
finding of stones,
cream richened by the never-failing
spring.
secrets, shhh.
We know.
Stay.
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