Lone Star Mountain stumucha

“No! We’re going to Rivenwood!”

A rasping voice, throwing up its own thunder to the deafening cloud-cover as the cry comes again, a hopeful change to the darkness in the sky.

His tears are the work of torrential rain, but nothing in nature would secrete the shake in his breast, nor the violent quiver of a lip that had so long ago formed the shape of “mom”.

But he knew, and his feet were moving quicker than his brain– a brain which had not readied himself to see her again; to forgive her, to hug her, to love her. His body had no care for the intricacies of the mind, it threaded between wood, churning through sopping mud, fighting earth, stone and tree to reach that call quicker, and all the while the heart which beat between head and feet chanting:

Let it be her. Let it be her. Let it be her.