Silvertip Mountain put me in a cab to suburbia

astara sat on a thick wedge of stone, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted. she’d made this jutting piece her makeshift throne these last weeks, sunning on its precipice often.

in truth, the blackbird was tired. a fatigue had settled thick around her shoulders — predating even her children’s arrival. what she suspected was first simply a mother’s illness had persisted — dredging her days with filmy cheerlessness.

she slept for now, front and center to the den her children often rested within.