I stop to mend my legs, the muscles I've knit and worn, knit and wound bay to bay. Fields scarred by barbed wire, bandaged with fleece. Someone's pants dancing dry on a line. Farms are minuscule. My hands immense.
Fulmars fold into crevices of air.
I lean down a hundred yards of sheer. The planet slips a little adjusting its plates. A door opens, a door shuts. A fjord of goats. A gorge of pine.