The clouds have dispersed. I can now see the turtledove plunging through the air and the whiteness of its breast in the diaphanous morning. In the background, the dry mountain divides and ascends. Hundreds of locusts calmly sway in a desertic dance. Yesterday, it at last rained: tears upon an inert shard. All that’s left is the petrichor, the awakening snail. Oh, black possibility of nostalgia! Don’t search for creatures in the mist. Don’t look for more shadows amongst the grains of sand. If something seems to observe you through the tree crowns, know that it isn’t like you. Or even like your sorrow, drifting over this lake of sand.
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