Blind and whistling just around the corner
And there's a wind that is whispering something
Strong as hell but not hickory rooted
She is not from a line meant to love; or so it feels now, as the years echo past and add weight to her bones. Of those who made her, some were lovers, some were not, but they all died fast, snuffed out as candles in the wind.
She’d embraced an anhedonic life, drifting through the years like a water-bug skimming the surface of a lake. She felt little, if anything – no love, but no hate, either. No sadness. She merely was.
But that had changed, with the lamb, with the gods or demons that came after.
She swallowed seals and fought for something, her flesh torn to ribbons and the taste of stone in her throat. She’d laughed, even, laughed while war and famine and death stood as corporeal things before her, crying havoc.
She’d cried havoc too, and let slip her own dogs of war – her laughter, a fearless unplumbed.
It seems almost like a dream now, but there are scars that haunt her bay hide. They force away the apathy she’d let sit in a thick veil across her. The scars keep her here as she grows her touchstone tree and says their names.
As she says her own, to the wind, to the stranger – who echoes it back in a voice that is not so strange. Chimes it, like bells, then says it again.
She knows that voice.
The voice that reminds her of gravdirt and strange warmth. If you’d asked her she’d say she’d forgotten the mare’s name but her tongue says otherwise because she says it in a tumble of confusion and a breath of something like excitement.
“Loam?”
