When the mountains stared at our backs,

it was my mother who read the sky, its cobalt

glass full of moisture. The clouds formed 
a necklace at the summit. If I could remember

the smell I would describe this as well. Though

I do recall the smoke trying to join with the clouds. 
Each tendril plume learning to fly. These birds

of smoke released themselves from the dung

hut chimney as my body rested on her back.
Braced in the sling of her shawl she sang

in a language I no longer recognise from thinking

but can identify from sight. It sounds like water.