Paw-prints softly sign the dust
where lion feet passed in the night;
yellow cats’ eyes watch me now
from a dozen likely places.
This is named the place of breezes:
walking on the ridge the sun
warms my cheek as dawn fire spreads,
though the lee of the hill is night cool.
Small insects start to flick about
from stem to stem of dried grass,
glistening topaz-jewelled with dew
in the clear golden light.
From "Smoke on the wind" by Flo
Photos by David Liebst