It is, I think her lips I miss most their butterfly flutter across my cheek then her eyes, almost feline that see within behind walls hastily erected that fall to her sight. It is all of that and the whispered words linking hearts that still echo as she slides into sleep. I cry out to Morpheus my words are swallowed by the drone of the engines that fall as rain into the Sea of Okhotsk to wash onto the shore of Khabarovsk.
He loved walking around the small lake. He could make a circuit in just under 40 minutes. If. If he didn’t stop to marvel at or photograph some bird along the shore. The runners flashing by him gave him strange looks, likely because they didn’t see the beauty in this bird’s feathers, how the light played off that bird’s beak. He was a runner once, until his knees gave out. But he can’t remember much of the paths he ran, just moment after moment of what was on the ground in front of him.
People of the mountain are quiet, some say taciturn preferring to listen for the cry of the eagle, wind whistling its familiar tune through a pass snow rent from the face tearing down in a crystalline cloud.
People of the shore merge with the song of the waves, feel its tempo punctuated by the bark of the whale, the horn anchored in the harbor, the tavern disgorging its nightly catch into the streets.
People of the city stare at the bleakness of the stone monolith torn from the earth white tipped peaks barren, and the endless wash of the sea, licking at land and retreating an ill-trained pup but mostly at the ground lest it slide from beneath them.