Shantih Journal 3.1 - Page 25

Cumulus jesse wolfe At a certain point you have to stop running, you cannot outpace the whistling of the bombs, wavelengths shortening as they target you from the sky. Nor even the clouds, lolling, serene, contemplative, above the skirmish. At a certain point you have to stop because neither the forest from which you emerged nor the ocean toward which you stretch could give cover, nor can your quietest stride find camouflage in the wind. At a certain arbitrary point you have to say, here is a beginning (not to pretend that nothing lingers, that the trek across the bridge was a mirage, or the nights sleeping on abandoned farms, accepting bread and water from strangers)— trusting that peace will fall, and fall again, as the wind ensemble, perfectly still between one passage and another, lips wetted by tongues, instruments half aloft, conceives the cadence of the fading silence. 25