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.