The conic lemon-like mountains
wrench themselves from the saurian sierra
with a gesture of not-quite-here-ness,
as if a sabre-toothed tiger
should hunker in the grass
that constitutes foreground.
No roads, no tracks unwind.
Only the glazing of the stationary sun
engenders movement behind the peaks:
a sizzle in feathery sand,
the weave and swerve of heat,
the patter of Moorish fountains.