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More Like a Lightning Bolt With Eyes |
More like a lightning bolt with eyes, or a walking sunset, looking down like a wedge of golden needles dripping with music. A dry wind pulled in, calling all the leaves and twigs and dust and ghosts to dance in concentric eddies as the light of the sky boiled down to a savory residue. I put out my hand, and it was very small against the towering billows of memory. The mirror reappeared, as it always does; even as the campfire burns, fueled by the cold, unending rain.
copyright 2012
David
Scriven |
