I once dreamt the mountain could speak—
it called me by every name I've forgotten,
braided moonlight into my throat,
and left dew behind my tongue
as proof I was ever kissed by something ancient.

Now, when I weep,
my tears birth a headwater stream.

It flowed in red
though the dream spun black and white
the green leaves formed my suit,
and the rolling stones my shoes
as if gravity led me—
and the valley summoned me home.