The sun has risen, the Fog has not. I listened in the Dreamtime to its rhythm and its rhythm, floating on its grey waves even as I stay anchored. A rock in a silver sea, the graffiti left behind a scar, a story, a memory, a song. It took me by the hand as it washed away the world. I wonder what else it has to share?
The sun is obscured, as if the day is merely and afterthought. The waterbeat rhythm still shifts my feet. I want to walk it back to its source. Not yet.
It hangs above the remaining snow and newly revealed grasses. It knows what we are coming to understand. All things end, and all things come back, and the stories between are worth telling, worth listening to, worth keeping. So too, then, are we.
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