from a long time ago, found in meanderings of old writings:
the land shuddered as if drawing a swift but ragged breath. we stood and watched, and in the moment of complete silence that followed it seemed as if that was it. but suddenly the ground shook more deeply, and in the distance across the flatlands of our home landscape came a violent pulse of earth. with every growling stroke the earth up heaved, the shadows of rock crawling with great, uneven steps into the dim purple light of the sky. first the plains turned rolling landscape, then sweeping hills, and then the earth found places to crash together and stretch higher, the tips of mountains now disappearing into the blackness of the falling night.
when at last it stopped, and the night birds started singing again over the last fading tremors, the great white wolf looked from the distant, new cliffs and then to me, with tongue lolling. 'not yet,' he said, and then turned and trotted lightly off to join the others. i watched him go before looking back to the mountains. in the farscape i saw a flash of white that wasn't him, but within moments it vanished into the veins of high rock.
the ink of night trickled finally down to consume the entire sky before i turned away and went back to the trees, and the song, and the hunt.
//
i've lost my box of photos, and my album. which means i've lost my only photograph of Arrow.
i remember when i wrote this. remember what i was thinking, at the time. almost five years ago, now. stories for other times, i guess.
why are the best years of your life sometimes so horrible?
the land shuddered as if drawing a swift but ragged breath. we stood and watched, and in the moment of complete silence that followed it seemed as if that was it. but suddenly the ground shook more deeply, and in the distance across the flatlands of our home landscape came a violent pulse of earth. with every growling stroke the earth up heaved, the shadows of rock crawling with great, uneven steps into the dim purple light of the sky. first the plains turned rolling landscape, then sweeping hills, and then the earth found places to crash together and stretch higher, the tips of mountains now disappearing into the blackness of the falling night.
when at last it stopped, and the night birds started singing again over the last fading tremors, the great white wolf looked from the distant, new cliffs and then to me, with tongue lolling. 'not yet,' he said, and then turned and trotted lightly off to join the others. i watched him go before looking back to the mountains. in the farscape i saw a flash of white that wasn't him, but within moments it vanished into the veins of high rock.
the ink of night trickled finally down to consume the entire sky before i turned away and went back to the trees, and the song, and the hunt.
//
i've lost my box of photos, and my album. which means i've lost my only photograph of Arrow.
i remember when i wrote this. remember what i was thinking, at the time. almost five years ago, now. stories for other times, i guess.
why are the best years of your life sometimes so horrible?
