She walks the old road, its surface malleable, as dirt reclaims its path.
Once a smoothness exited, now gone, curves vanishing, the wind, indeterminant.
Her bones feel like prisms, sharp angles, poking out of moving flesh, legs move with assuredness, tenderness.
The road has soft spots, where plants, alive and dead, scar its surface
Not necessarily an easy road to walk by foot. She’s careful. Always.
Her eyes move along its lines, reading its rough syntax, needles, bark, old flowers, wet upon the edges, a dark, moist shadow frames them all.
She places her hands flat upon a remaining level surface
Organic debris, a scree of thoughts stick to her.
She looks at her hands like opening a book
Then looks at the road, she can see the imprint of her hands.
How odd they look, their silhouette, alien.
It’s been a wet August, but it hasn’t really rained, not really.
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