They are not travelers but witnesses, carried across the wet spine of a passing disturbance.
The beast beneath them has no stable name: horse, cloud, wave, nervous system.
It moves because storms move.
The figures remain upright only by habit, as if balance were the final human superstition.
Behind them there is no road.
Ahead of them there is no promise.
Only the long animal of weather and the certainty of being taken.




