We are a planet of mountain range spines, long, lean lakes and tidal pool eyes.  


The wind of our lungs sings sweet and low-quiet-soft through our valleys of bone and the flesh of




Every hand-forest’s finger tree trembles as the dream quake rattles the celestial body. 


Wrapped in night and anchored by gravity, we orbit in space and blankets and our heart beat


pulse is the definition of sound.  


The moon crests over Shoulder Hill, rising as stars fall down past your horizon.  


We lay afield and watch satellites and when the sunlight whispers low we whisper too, and bury 


one another.

Originally published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal: A Collection of Vignettes from Across the Globe