The wind rises as the day that was begins to fade. The world still blue skies and bird calls, I abide the drag and draw of these tides of chilled breeze. I pace these worn down moments, small circles scuffed into the dust. Birds speed by while branches sway and dance above me, tracing each awkward step in paws. I ghost along in little empty slivers, every ritual cut into pieces small enough to swallow. Every sense a slice of memory, every record a mention of the missing.
Time tries hard to ease each burden, burying everything it touches whether dead or wary. Oblivion lasting long enough to be equal to all it conspires, there is a fashion of faith made from all that cannot be fathomed. The map itself takes on the story, now a narrative if only for all the endings marked. Layer by layer we grow our scars and pile our diggings, the count moving on by stone and silt. We trust the numbers because they never stop.
Children still play in the schoolyard, always ready to make the most of whatever sun there is. The dogs here kick up dust and rocks, play frenzied into raw riot, plummeting either flee or follow in wild clipped courses. Gravel nicks my feet and ankles, my pursuits now only collateral to the game of hunt and shake. Shadows seem to pause, solemn and purposeful along fence and yard. No matter the hour, it is always just over. No matter the sun left me, I can only see so far.