Sunday, 30 November 2008

Thin sticks, walking

Thin sticks, walking. Tumbleweed dot of dog runs beside them and away like a looping thread. Fading smaller they are merging with ground bound rain of mirage shimmer, where refraction pulls their movements into a staccato dance from a chaotic pen. They break up like static, hit the lip before they fall into the abyss of distance too far to see.

And after their falling

the stillest space. Endless sand. Forever sky reflecting in the mirror of shallows. A canvas that shows the tiniest change. It waits for a new word on an empty page.