There’s a heavy cloud shadow sitting on the mountain. A single opening allows the angled sunlight to find a way through, to find a way to make the hard stone glow. The monsterman won’t look out the window of the truck. I point, tap the glass, but nothing. The mountains that will soon be a faint memory to him can’t draw his eye. As always, he does what he wants and rawrs at me.
He’s known nothing but desert, mountains, and arroyos. Third birthday so very soon, he knows nothing of rivers, nothing of the way a forest wraps you in hushed greenery.
It’s funny how I only remember that a blog can be personal, should include the personal, when on the precipice of change. Oh, what a precipice on which I stand.
Throwing the Bones
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