The land turns up a corrugated iron face lathered in fog. We come between revolution and the cold. Now comes our time. Green takes on an alias, and listening, we imagine using ideas in order to live beyond our means. Our shelter falls out of the trees as leaves backslide, mumbling into pools.
Wind draws out a landscape to a thread.
But rather than miss dreaming we will lean against the horizon and shove. There is only a blue shred of it left, a deep breath wherein we name children and invoke heroes. Down the last visible hole of light, the sun pans for gold, settling for amethyst, then coal. An alibi for dawn will keep us listening for those who know how to defer the cost, at any cost. The smallest sound of her brush is only the night singing along a worn path.