small path through the field across from where I used to live— first up climb, first field , small flock of pines comes out into the other field—the down field , spreads, dips between sandstone cliffs , where western tanagers and actual blue birds perch on top of mullen–open beaks sing and listen to the end of their own complicated rant echo in the valley. tender path , the mule deer, sage and wild grass almost cover the trail and in places balance like a beam. now all these years later it’s connected to US 36, thick red dirt wind dirt bikes thrumming by. weak smiles, suck on water bladders, thumping by leave rider’s breath and spit. sweat pours onto handle bars, strain to say “hello it’s quite a day, with the heat finally, and the pinecones greening up the pines.” tree smells the same and same pitch. a dark oily color in a few places red , a real body— animal body laid here. musk hairs. maybe more than one carried this body away. maybe two bodies. the friendly restoration sign with a line drawing of a dragonfly. cut through the fence and the other fence to a place where I carried small insects and mice bodies and dug holes for them and sat with them as the wind coiled and the evening primrose.