Northerly,
circling
the windshield
its
hand prints of leaves,
giving in to
their brief flight,
and their glassy
question marks
that say,
why
does it rain
in the desert?
So
much
of
you,
stripped
from your bones,
old rivers that scented trees,
their nakedness pointing you
to the sky,
cathedrals that
do not ring.
Isle of Hoy 