✮ The Terraces ✮
The cicadas paint the most divine night. Theirs: their song of sweet ache; the umbra: her striated impenetrable cloak and ringing throughout, stirring on rests as dews are to the morn. The light’s arching spine at dawn thrusts and rustles through the gaps making way for the cold sun. It itches from the pricking pines and crashes on spots lightning untouched. The daylight bellows is a canon…








