Small Stone, January 24 (ish)

The only true light is the orange slice of sunset watching at the window, cutting a rectangular prism through arena dust onto the dirt. You laugh and look and leap, cling to mane, gasping and giggling, while you pull yourself aboard. I lean over, breathless with laughter, overcome with being exactly where I should be. I feel, pleasantly, like our 30 years are collective rather than respective.