Clouds scroll in quiet drifts, holding light and water in honor, in memory.
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At evening the sun will slant across their miles like today’s mail against a library book among the birds of last-light, small-town alpenglow, summer sorrow.
Here in my easy seat the blades barely bother the boundaries of my view – the slash of not-enough, the cut of darkness, chaos offered a child by way of life, life taken by way of chaos. Only a pinprick registers in the breaths between armor, but it is near my heart: listen, mourn, breathe.
