Lay of the Land
Wan yellow. . . . The sun rises behind my eyelids, and the country I'm wandering through this night begins to brighten: its lone valley, spotted with live-oaks, yawning and stretching like a young leopard.
What is she doing right now? Oh, but I know: turning in bed, eyes open, gazing at the east window brimming with oranges, yellows, and pale pinks: her own dreams fleeing like ghosts into the comfort of the room's dark corners, singing, "Good-bye, we love you."
And I know the point that must be reached is the point of no return.
cries and whispers
what we say
what we hear