This bowl in the hills, this valley— Would you descend the rocks after me? The river's gone, but its name remains. The gurgle from its throat has found a bronzer vein in which to hide. A bird with a wingspan long as history drops its load of footnotes on our heads. Still prospecting, I scrape shallow pans along the gravelly bed. In high summer, the veiled cries of cicadas among the trees; in winter, smoke heavy as pelt from lit fires. In the ashes, one might find an amulet compounded out of water and its absences.