Praise be the autonomous
who sit, crumped upright
in a land of red Mountains.

The ones who eat, food dripping
from loose corners, at a table
of stone,

who lay, facedown on beds
of Earth shards, listening hard
for the rare sound

of a fly, here, or
a cricket, canning for heat,
or the distant tumble of pumice against mountain
as the wind takes another one.

How delightful the autonomous.
How delightful the sounds.

Questioning nothing,
we reign supreme.

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