A discarded sapling, lying on its side, roots still moist. They could have carried the sun farther, but their bones broke under the heat, the weight, the anticipation of darkness. Leaves fluttering. Watching from the field. Birds everywhere, agitated, moving against the light. Night rolls the sun. As if the wind has collaborated or the dust or the thought of rain. Leaves fluttering, still attached. They recorded the first attempt, left the bones behind. Something burning steadily on the horizon. Heavy machinery moving back and forth. Someone took the sapling, wrapped the roots in burlap, moved the sun towards the east. Nothing was reported in the media, although screens had burn holes and newsprint was seared.
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Andrea Moorhead
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