Red Clay

 

Rutted, red clay — when they didn’t speak. We felt through the dark for the first moving thing. Swept hand, conducting the silence.
Keys — big hands. After years of use, smooth metal, and a golden feel. Early sparrows and the grammar of emotion. Wingbeats followed echoes of other wingbeats.
Shoulder-pat backslap fiduciary responsibility — they calculated and prodded, stacked meat for the others who came after. She woke wondering where her next breath would come from, idly watching leaves tap against the window.
There would be time. They stood and walked in every direction, all at once, holding nothing, eyes bright.
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About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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