It must have happened with my back turned to the sea, head full of green-song and forget-me-not blue. Somehow I’d missed the signs. Summer’s feet tightened in a breath, wet nose lifting. It trotted upslope as if summoned, stealing like smoke among the rough-coated trees, the whiskered forest, the shouldering cliffs.
Clouds hold more than moisture. They take you with them, if allowed. I have been lulled by their river scent, their search for summer bones. It is a merry chase, until the blindness leaves in a damp wake. Yet some follow, even as they stay. The quilted mosses know how; they watch me and sigh, deeply. The mushrooms nod sagely, red caps pointing at my dreaming, itchy feet.
This time I stay too, being denser now, more stone than storm. As summer slips swiftly I collect slowly, a tide pool of death and magic. There is a gritty peace here. Grace resides in the sour-bright leaves and needled, wolfish clouds. Soon the starlit branches will be free to howl. Soon the pebbled moon will tug and rise. Soon every bone will lay frosted, cloaked and glittering with crisp gems.