Suddenly the light dulls as if someone drew a shade over the beaming bulb in the sky.
It’s midday, and the people shuffle along the streets, cherishing every stride as the weekend passes them by.
The stories that they speak get carried like pollen in the winter breeze,
and in the far corners of this open field they sprout again, whispered by new voices.
Stories of women raising spirits from the ground, or soldiers battling the terrors of the seas;
of mothers with new babies, and entire cities raised high above the trees;
of a redheaded girl who makes lightning strike with a single wink of her eye.
Their stories sprout and grow and show no signs of slowing, like an endless river’s flow.
They split and branch into different streams, dividing whole continents untile they meet their maker;
the great tide of the high seas.
Here, they lay wide open like the mouths from which they came; a great ocean of blues and greens,
all mixed together to make them all seem the same.