And I tell her there will be a new moon. And of the stars we will see. Remember that crescent perched above the blazed horizon?
There are maps with topography of grey and colour and I think about moving to those dark places. Fingertips follow roads from Kentucky to there. Burial grounds.
A home under galaxies and shooting stars.
3 more sleeps
till we commune with space and sky and mountain, again.
Prickles of cacti under barefeet
and laughter echoing into particles of desert and
the dust devils we will chase.