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One More Turn Home

The path curls once more around the stone. At its quiet center, the map case comes down and the morning can wait.

The waterfall keeps talking outside. On the dry ledge, a towel changes hands, and the last cold drops leave their shoulders.

The rain turns silver on the terraces. Two wet capes hang by the door while the drying shelf warms their travel-worn straps.

Blue sand slips from the last boot. Beyond the porch, the dunes hold the evening light; beside the door, a soft bench is waiting.

One holds the doorway while the other brings the tripod through. Behind the thin walls, two different nests share the same gentle light.

Two suns cross the plain, but neither reaches the back of the porch. Dusty feet find cool clay; a little water darkens the stone.

Rain still gathers in the leaves. Under the bark roof, eight small hollows are dry, and the panniers can finally come off.

The lake has carried the morning in quietly. At the little doorway, the traveler reaches for the tether beside a waiting loop of silk.

Their maps are rolled, their packs unfastened. In the little woven room, there is a long cushion and a broad mat, each exactly right.

Outside, the grass leans with every passing gust. Inside the pleated walls, a tired pair of wings finds somewhere soft to fold.