My hands out

One day it just clears up wide and terrible as normandy, but bloodless. bereft of all memories that always accompany the foul west winds of a killing season.

And we quake in the expanse.

Fear the sun and her umbrage.

A breath and the taking away of one petty pace after the next which might signify something if only there were a reason to stand up and count the ones left alive. counting time. measured sighs. falling short of the wide open door scoffing.

'Welcome, son. welcome, daughter. wee last one and all.'