Above the wood on the plateau a battlefield of bleached bones of stones. Walls wide, thick coarse mortar dusts where green lizards flick their tails and disappear. I try whistling a blade of grass, clamped between thumbs I blow. Silence. I try again and then remember I don’t speak the language. In patches of bare earth shards of pottery, the grooves in the clay still visible from the wheel. A rim, a lip. My fingers touch where someones once did a thousand thousand moons ago.