I listen to the trees, they tell me nothing, we walk, it is safe, you will not know me. Tomorrow there will be fog. You will be gone, the air takes the birds, the sea takes the sand, time takes nothing and heats the days, drawing out the air. I listen to the birds too, who don’t show themselves. All I ever see on this mountainside are quiet vultures who sit on the ground and not on the trees, and who never seem to want because they never float. Maybe the air is too heavy here, where the fog sinks every morning. If I breathe it long enough maybe I will sit still, too.

 
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