A wagon is filled with fields. They have been told to kill all the robins. There is no time to eat. They must follow orders. Trees, prayers leap like dust in the seam of this day.
Leaves escape the chase of wind.
I am in Schreniava, sitting at the edge of the river mill with all of them, Yankush, Leah, Salek, and the rest. I can see them dancing, dying too, before them and after, the children repeating the burnt words of an ancient ceremony. In water willows may weep for centuries. Time is a velvet ribbon, a river we cross over and try to remember. There is nothing here.