Parable

Here is the throat. So small.    
 
In southern Siberia, herders
of goats and reindeer sing from deep within their larynx: Khomeii—
                                sounds like the wind swirling
among rocks—or a mother camel who’s lost
her calf: six pitches oscillating simultaneously 
across the wide open steppes of Tuva,
where Turkics, Mongols, and Manchu
ruled. 
Tie a prayer ribbon
to a  
 
cairn. In the cold fog
of grasslands—native to violet-veined iris and phlox—
                                        new luxury boom-cities rise, espaliated
with Japanese maple, beds
of roses. No one sleeps here—tens of thousands of houses, and dozens
                                 of office buildings—a speculative real estate
bubble, a ghost
town. And
                                                the cat
still laps yak milk: smooth tip of tongue
                  lightly touching surface, pulling upward at high speed,
 
drawing a column of
liquid
behind it, jaws closing and swallowing. A blur— 
invisible has many facets, and disappearing
becomes a legacy. Women were prohibited from singing
so they practiced while milking cows,
lulling children to sleep or drinking
araga. A feeling of
                                                scarcity. Hide is both vellum
and retreat. In these harmonics, the mouth
does not need to be closed, but it demonstrates the point
                                                better. Tongue rises and
 
seals around gums—and
air is pushed to the
               tiny hole
behind molars. Lips
forming
     a bell-like
shape. 
He that hath hid can find.