It is time to begin our descent. Suspended between the blanket of smoke
and the clouds, we each take an end and lengthen the lines. Double it,

pull, now jump. Moving into the edges of the grid, the places
people go when they want things to be quiet, or want the quiet pierced

by the wretched howls of cows in spring after the still birth. Not
human or mechanical wails, where trucks full of crops

come to a stop. Where the high whine rises out of constancy, wanting
to be noticed. There, we can still find scraps of grass to take our walks

together, noting the slight differences with every pass. See, this leaf
wasn't there before, so time doesn’t stop even when you’re looking

down at the darkness drawing over the vast curved lines of the earth.
Be still, be held still, or drift with what drifts above & above & above.