To return is not the opposite of leaving.
I saw fires that do not go out.
Hands that know before the mind.
Faces where time has a different shape.
At Mungongo they opened the door and began to sing.
They were not expecting us.
Yet it was for us.
I think back to the Nguendelengo of Garganta.
They hunt. They farm.
They take what the land gives.
I have not stopped wondering if it is too little.
Or if it is exactly right.
I have more questions now than I had when I left.
This too feels like an arrival.