Flight



All on the way out
and counting days
like the last raindrops before a drought.
Blackened heads
low to the plowing wind,
but the eyes are roving,
seeking out a ridge of earth,
a stony outcrop to blink beyond
the shading hand of reality,
and our bodies are tense with intention.
"The moon is not too far to run to,"
she whispers to me...




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