The morning begins quieter than you've been used to, the last of August still stretching its tendrils along your shoulder blades. The deer come down from the mountain, so early in the season, you are both reading the temperatures wrong, both preparing for the chill even as the flowers wilt in the sun. You look at off-grid cabins in New Mexico and try to remember the momentum that propeled you all the way here, try to remember the fire that drove you from your sleep.
The space is growing around you, the ground preparing for your moves. Nothing is lost that cannot be found, nothing is past that cannot be made present. He says I'll get the bus ready for you, and you think the road beneath you has all the answers you'll ever need.
Think there is magic up ahead
you haven't even known to wish for.
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