In the Riad (for Mohamed)

Sound hardly reaches here. It is lonely from sound.

Sound reaches; but it is broken like by deep distant canyon's roar or a steep mountain valley whistle. It is silence of mind.

There are bird sounds, but most like a rustle.

Every once in a while, a daytime awareness, the mind listens.

It believes there is a city around me, around here, outside the door.



Last night, I caught a wedding celebration in a corner of my dreams.

Distant, the movements of long fluted horns, may be a parade stomp.

Light, drawn down in shadows, lengthens these notes.

There is drought in the tiny chatters. Drought in shadows.



At night, there is a donkey braying.

Braying at the yard. The yard by the large gate.

My wife says, “All over the world, mules are mistreated.” I agree.

There is drought in the tiny chambers.

We open the door and go out.