I
at the pass,
fog stands guardian,
then moves on
II
the chipmunk
freezes at a crack,
sniffing the air
III
a burble rolls
off the paddle as
the boat glides
under jungle
creepers, trees, and moss
lost cities wait
one clean edge
of rough chiseled stone
peeks from mound
when we’re gone
something will remain
of us, and not…