She hugged the tree with red body and red locks. A murder of crows kept making mad and loud sounds, filling the sky with black wings as dusk hour continued to put calves to sleep. Everyone stared at the autumnal sky with prayers on their tongues, with a memory stretching far back to the eyes of a ravine and the first ancestor.
Does she need to write of this? Again? She wonders. This repetitive tale of rice recipes and departures. This puzzle of seeing the mystic again or not. This estranged desert of poetry. This empty thought disgusted over absence yet only of the absence. This crisis she will not speak of from the stomach. Not speak of from violent abandonment or intoxicated sunsets, not from lust or from identity. Not from pen. This time. This time it is brittle. Only of a crack.