Hovering not against a solid ground, one in constant motion over the expanse of time, holding an ember glow of soft cadences, clear as birdsong in a silent forest, open without sight or mind, in the stillness the promise, a cry of a plane overhead, wars, years in moments. Each sound becomes frequency, and in. silence becomes an oscilloscope in a science class somewhere, deep in memory, green and flickering across the black grey surfaces, each murmur a diagonal, each in its own hidden promise, like a growing spring, come late into summer, as the seasons change. But what does it know of the cool of the evening, the warmth of the human heart, the rust becomes rainfall, the garden becomes a dream, and here we sit, not against a solid ground, one constant in motion, but the expanse of time, held in the ember glow of soft cadences clear as a song in a silent forest, eyes wide open, for all that we can ever hope to see.

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