During the tenth day
under a single-minded sun
the thickening air conjures
shapes out of nothing:
dazed rabbits, uncertain insects
and something unclear,
beyond the trees

The mountain shifts uneasily
afraid of faith that comes by heat, not light,
on this quiet Sunday
where stillness broods
on the face of the earth

Those who would climb
turn back, unseasonably scarred,
finding nowhere to hide
in the scorched and holy rocks

Those who can fly do so,
while those who remain touch nothing,
create no miracles:
time itself fades,
and colour drains from the tree
clinging to a fragile cliff