When I look up at the clouds, and the half moon rising above evening trees, birds winging on the breeze, I feel like I’m in a science fiction novel. It’s all so patently impossible, must be the stuff of imagination.
A layer of kissing mist, an enveloping, quieting fog in the treeline, the echoing squawk of a raven, swifts’ wingtips brushing the orange, silty soil. The calm before the storm, the eternal staving off of inevitable work. Another dawn, another dime. One strong rain could wash it all away, save the grass and Old Earth for another day.