Wave after wave of day and night, the rolling tide of rotation and light crashes down into these depths of shadows. Ragged tree limbs painted across star and dusky sky, dust dancing into the restless air. This earth is a stretch of thirst and rough touches, things separating in huddled crowds of food and feeding, shambling masses of fuel and burn. This earth a trail of endless loss and stunned wonder.
These walls are cluttered with breath and hush. These rooms lit with those treasured fevers and sacred clocks. The heat so soft the flesh surrenders. The air so thick it sticks in the teeth. This roof above the church of squandered glances. This floor below these sunken ships and buried treasures. Every motion just outside the reach of reason.
We wait beneath the watermark. We slow below the precipice. In the caves and beneath the tree tops we arrive at the foundation of all these remains. Here in the dust and humus, in the slender touch of shadow and earth, we come along these branches of stubborn intent. This day, this night, this history, this hope. These small offerings of blood and ash, these little gifts of sweet collision.