The green winds are picking up, stripping the dust from the stone. We hope they’ll slow and some of the algae will settle. We never noticed the change, in terms of a before and after. In hindsight, wherever you draw the line, it’s arbitrary. But that’s 2020. We just strode on, taking everything in. Adjusted the mechanism to compensate, let the tempest take us. A cactus adjusts its gyroscope as the gale picks up.
The agama disappears into the green wind, leaving experience behind. The vultures, their pistons still, hunch into their aerofoils.
They want the rust, the machines the wind has gotten into, where the corrosion has made joints stiff, where the algae has grown into grass.
The agama’s ticking, its sound born back to us on the wind, grows fainter and fainter. The wind has a way of getting into everything.
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