Tis sunrise, the sky cloudy and gray as the underside of an ocean-going vessel save for a single eye-like splotch of orange in the East. Perhaps an announcement from the Herald of All Things.
Perhaps not.
Cold from the night lingers, and milky white tendrils of sticky fog loop themselves around the crowns of tall green pines still dark in the twilight, giants that stand in judgement. But moreover, the fog drips and oozes as the coital remnants of frantic overnight couplings of bare warm sweaty skin on bare warm sweaty skin, and her familiar peppery woman-scent on the nape of her neck and near that smooth mysterious place where her ilium begins just below curve of her hip and down from there…Tis as is Passion’s wont, and Desire’s stipulation.
And morning comes and night dissolves, and the World is fresh and renewed as virgin snow makes a landscape changed and new, and a secret kiss propels, always, us, the human stain, onward. Pray, what else must we do?
For from Pandora’s Box, Hope forever comes.
Always.
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