An old man leans into the wind’s rough hymn,
his shadow pooling beside a smaller one,
four legs steady as roots against the sway.
The earth hums low beneath them,
a pulse older than memory,
its voice braided with threads of frost and silt.
He clutches a leash like a rosary,
fingers tracing knots of time,
while the air bends heavy with unspoken names.
A slab of gray juts up,
etched with whispers no one reads aloud,
its edges softened by lichen’s patient crawl.
The dog tilts its head,
ears catching echoes the man can’t hear —
a rustle of light, a scent of lost summers,
something vast and fleeting brushing past.
They stand, twin sentinels of weathered quiet,
bound to a stillness that shifts beneath their feet,
as if the ground itself remembers
what the sky has long let go.
