The turning of the sun

the greying crystal break in the dawn
as the light pours out of the clouds
drifting down along the contours
these hills undulate against the baying
calls of oxen steaming as the air rises
from their stone backs
these ribs carry such weight
nothing a man will know
as he climbs a tree and
sounds his horn
at the turning
of the sun

the flames melt the clouds
he plays the violin with both eyes
pulling into them such scenes
as the battles fought on these sleeves
of land

these rolling hills that
slide under the capes of blood