It is Saturday. The armor we are settling down over our skin is leather and dense and carries the memory of life in it. There is air on the bare places, kisses in the exposures, breaths of light on skin. There is the stirring of the many come to move as one. There is a coming into position, a squaring of shield. There is the ground, the swelling of hilltop, and there is us, ranged upon it, waiting for the call.
Telling: Streams & Logs