Carabao **** isn't permafrost, temperature, disdain — climates stirring into a tornado soup of force, melting, seclusion. In the heartbeat of gulls, the waves gargled froth and spat on charred limestone. Then the grass beneath our wet feet writhed in the slice of wind atop the hills of Hiyop, in Catanduanes where roads go unmoored from their skiffs like violin strings curling under sharp slide. You can invent a new word to describe transformations, but these will never catch it in the act — the moment vibration somersaults into howl, when swinging grass is louder than jetplanes then suddenly quieter than prayer. I like to dig my thumb into the soft marsh, dirt occupying the folds, creases; labyrinthine pathways of skin blanketed with Earth. At this point the mountain knows me; and I dare to know the mountain but come short, reaching only its narrow berms, pockmarks, and ****-ridden sheath of dry flowers cooking the words to a song of its people.