In the high grass that rippled like a sea, we played at finding, hiding, disappearing. In and out of the shadows, the sun flickered like a lazy fish, a silken flag, a golden eye whose tears spooled thin into a bowstring. Straight down we slid, and down again, to where the ground dipped like presentiment of treachery to court that sharp frisson of danger: rocks to tatter our clothes, any abrupt edge to catapult us through the humid air— We touched and tasted salt of our sweat, whelped cries from our furious labor to break through circles that ringed our homes: bees in their hive, the honey-fat queen glued fast in her cell. All the drones circling and circling, sentinels divested of their sting.
In response to Via Negativa: Sound of the Sea.