Pyrenees

There’s quite an art to being here
keeping thoughts wide,
allowing the breath a rhythm
that responds to sudden shifts
of light and temperature.

I notice a sense of self
requiring less ballast
of thoughts or feelings.

Sounds of goat bells,
dogs barking, cuckoos,
wind in dry oak leaves,
are all isolated by the silence
of these mountains
and have no hierarchy
of decibels.

I walk barefoot on warm clay
and know that I am
more transient a visitor
than the yellow and black
salamander
whose belly rests
on these donkey tracks
through juniper and broom.