istan, andalucia

tiny white hillside dwellings, poised at altitude,
as though - like parachutes, they might take off.

their inhabitants periodically shed skin,
as cork trees, and reveal raw, red flesh.

i imagine them sitting at rest, eating bitter,
black balls submerged in jars of sea,

sharing bottles of wine where bits of
those same trees reveal raw, red 

and the sound of flamenco music.
as i walk, i ponder the arid dust

and musk of these red hills,
think of istan as a place of wanderlust.