
8 Followers
A river throat-sang against shale, coughing silver syllables through gravel teeth. I cupped its vowels in my palms and thought: desire is current—feral, fluent, shoving syntax into deltas of delirium, refusing to parse into periods because water abhors conclusion.
Beyond the frost-crusted knees of peaks crawl shadows, ribs cracked with wind. They braid silence into nooses and sling it through dusk, and I choke on its hiss bright as bone, whispering prayers burnt raw by tongues licked clean with ice.
Dew doesn’t announce itself. It just arrives with dawn, soft as truth unspoken. A quiet miracle on grass tips.
The elder tree stood at the pasture's edge, its berries ripe and deep with color, and sparrows chirped in chorus from its highest branches.