Little brother, when did you become so wise?
Once some obligation, you’ve become my instinct.
The whole of your body shudders with the thrust of that enormous heart,
sending blood to your hands,
the ones that hide uncle’s ash vessel
with coffee mugs or bowls of fruit,
so that we know you’ve been in the kitchen.

When we are together,
talking about the wild and the current,
about fossils, stars and politics,
we use our deep beard voices
but our words are encoded with love.

When you are panting, I will draw you to the shade.
When I am cool and full with water,
you will remind me that we must work.
I hope that your road has many thick trees,
although I know that’s not your way.

We will recline on a hill in the sun,
sharing packed food and studying the coast below,
you polishing your rifle with a salty cloth,
and i’ll have my book of poetry;
we both found a way to protect the world.