All the hands, white on canyon walls, clap at dawn.
Something like the night-life of stuffed animals.
All the sand particles jump once, rattling together at full moon’s first light.
All day the white hands and the white sands are loose
with barely contained mirth.
Rock joins in at night’s commencement, and water.
Each plant shifts, snorts its amusement.
Stone-animal outlines dip and grin, walking-around-animals pause to smile,
trying not to.
All the world is moving, moving, living.
All the world is glad to be within.
orphan poems 