The hearth is your womb. Your birth is fire. That night it rained. You cringed to the earth. Your smell not that of petrichor but ashy. Wetty. Base. You smelled of death. When the daylight came, it found you breathing for life. Some of you had gone with the foam, the mucus of the first flowing water. The ones left on the side waited for the sun to dry. Then it dried. And then the wind came and took you away. You fell everywhere like subjects in The Parable of the Soils. You then became wun with pollen and with the wind and dust. You must have been a tree once. Your leaves canopied the below, now their place taken over by aging And Town’s spheres, like a dwelling you created. Insects like bugs camouflaged on your bark.
The full story appears on the drr issue of Place. Order your copy here.