Under the oriental sun
the sightless man is driving again.
He knows the way
knows these roads by heart.
He drives with care
never reckless.

He says, “Turn down the radio I can’t hear when you whisper.”
Instead, I turn it up because I know if I whisper softer
it will sound like a train wreck.

I contemplate words.
The weight of sounds.
How when you finally step away from the elephant
everything sounds better.
Everything makes more sense.

I tell him we all should learn sign language as our first language.
I can move my hands Isadora magic in my dreams.
It is those dreams I pine for driving through the high desert
praying for rain.

Instead, it begins to snow.
I think how it is sad that the sightless man cannot hear sign language
and how I don’t want to count the infinite number of snowflakes.

The smallest ones are so difficult.