There is rain on the mountain
rising like an apocalypse.
The sun’s last hour is blue,
the color of wetness, the color of trees.
The herd grazes on a rainbow,
silent in the curves of geometry.
Some forgotten hymn hides in the tall grass,
fireflies praising the electric savannah
rolling into sunset.
Crickets always know the secret first.
Angels in the acacia scatter—
principalities begin their work at night.
The farmer, the oxen, the yoke—
they will carry the sun while the hours sleep.
Stars rise, only to fall on water
under the mountain.
There is a path that wanders from nowhere,
leads nowhere.
At night, the mountain lies with the earth.
Life is once again conceived
in the mind of God
from a lowly African dream.
~William Hammett
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