January 20, 2017 The memory isn’t old enough— its ragged edges still seep. With just a fat needle and yarn the color of sunrise, I could stitch a hieroglyphic scar. A tale of omen, masquerade and fate. * Black fades to white. White snow blackens. An earthquake liquefies solid ground, which sucks at us. Promise that our eyes will hold. Keep our ears attuned, despite the words that slice the membranes deep inside. * How could we, students of the earth, have so misunderstood the marsh? Moving from mound to hillock, the length of each step grew longer. Water deepened. And when we looked, the dunes were a mile behind. Ahead— the silent sound. No gull, nor boat. No one. Once we accept the muck in our shoes, it is simple to sit on a hummock and rest. Sinking slowly like the sun.