The clouds are still and heavy as stone, relentlessly unmoving, while the hills under flickering lights swim by as I go. The sky usually so changing as it measures time, and the earth that sits and waits, they forget and shift scales and I cannot tell time and everywhere I go the same low and pressing clouds.

Also still is the image of an old lover: a vision in a white shirt, always in a half step going, stationary, like the ice under the stones that move them through the valley.