The Migration of Rust

Iron yields its silver skin to the air, a slow combustion in the key of ochre. It flakes like the wings of a dying moth, returning the girder to the red clay floor.

Water is the quietest thief we know, carrying the weight of the mountain down until the bridge is only a memory of breath, a skeleton of lace held together by ghosts.

We stand in the shadow of what was solid, watching the orange dust settle on our palms. Even the hardest edge eventually softens, learning the language of the earth again.