Rowan.

the curve of a broken hill
the smell of the dirt and sweat and heat in the air
the closeness
the contact
the unanswered questions left hanging in an atmosphere that a knife would stick in
stuck

not being able to move away
not being able to get closer
not being able to prevent the inevitable catastrophe

but trying so hard to hold on to the moment

when things were ok
when the hill welcomed travelers onto a smooth surface
when the air hung more with scents of comfort than of uncertainty
when the closeness wasn’t so suffocating
when the contact was comforting
when the questions didn’t need to be asked

in the brief seconds
before change