After seven years of drought,
seasons of bucketing water from the shower,
wash basin, and tub--to the pinon,
awash with bores, the juniper, butterfly
bush, and the winsome,
plucky rose--
 
the desert, one day,
tired of the promise of rain,
weary of dark skies, and of the smell of ozone,
and of lightening and the
endless peal of hollow thunder,
lifted its parched lips,
and cried out once and for all
to the mountains, and the spirit that lives there.
The people,
 
that is, all  of us, danced,
the Dineh, Navajo, Hopi, and Tewa,
we danced at the pow-wows,
we danced in the churches, we prayed
at the sacred springs, and hidden places. 
We pressed our songs up to the bowl of the sky,
let our tears fall
in the red clay, into the
dry sand washes,
and riverbeds,
 
then, in the midst of our heavy fears,
but never apathy, the rains came, all at once
and hard.  The monsoons, in the midst of summer
and early fall, poured down from the mountains
and the clouds, onto the baked earth,
poured into streets, and over river banks, ditches,
and acequias, over the beards
of old men and the shawls of
the dancers,
 
over the parched trees
and dry gardens, and canyons walls,
and the mud baked feet of
children, and old women making fry bread,
over the boots of cowboys, dandies,
wanna be injuns, real injuns, and me.

Borneo sheds her light
in rings of fire, beautiful and daunting.
Sweltering heat breaks open
the buds of flowers,
and you too
if you can be brave.
At the top of your head
where thoughts like to come and go
a crack opens. Like birds startled from sleep
your fears dart out of their cave
and soar into the falling light.
In the great rustling of wings, you are
alone and free.  

Borneo sheds her light
in rings of fire, beautiful and daunting.
Sweltering heat breaks open
the buds of flowers,
and you too
if you can be brave.
At the top of your head
where thoughts like to come and go
a crack opens. Like birds startled from sleep
your fears dart out of their cave
and soar into the falling light.
In the great rustling of wings, you are
alone and free.  

Kalimantan, unlike Jakarta, has no beggars
to speak of. It also has no sea breeze.
Few are wealthy save a few lucky
gold miners and politicians—whose biggest
contribution is polluting the rivers
and public officials.
 
We sleep in a cabin over the stables.
The horses, snorting loud, talk to one another
as dark falls. One of the mares, about to foal,
bangs against her stall, shaking my bed. There’s a crack
under the front door big enough
for a cobra to get through. Too tired to care,
I sleep soundly, dreaming of a man
I once knew in Montana who was calling me
on the phone. His laughter, like a blanket,
holds me until dawn.

The other day, cutting blackberry bushes
on uneven ground and not happy about it,
a flock of crows flew overhead and landed in the
big spruce, all talking at once, like
old men at a ball game, no body listening
to anybody else. Something about their ruckus
though, vaguely familiar and annoying.
I’ve been to parties like that.
 
When I sit in meditation a few times a week,
not more than that, since there are so many other things
to do, I think of those crows. Am I like that? I ask
God. Talking and boasting about one thing or another,
and not listening? Yes, She says. Now and then.
I bother Her from time to time with these questions.  

–Djohariah Toor