Tag Archives: river bones

Part of You ©️

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What if humans are not outside observers, not passengers, not even offspring — but instruments the Earth built to sense itself?

What if the world, in its great slowness, reached a point where it could no longer bear its own silence — so it sculpted a new kind of organ, not a tree, not a stone, not a river, but us — a nerve ending wrapped in flesh, a sudden flare of thought capable of asking what it is made of?

Maybe mountains need us to feel tall.

Maybe the sky can only be vast because something small was born to marvel at it.

Maybe a forest is not complete until something can walk through it and feel awe, like touch returned to the hand of the world.

We look at the ocean and say: There is the sea. But maybe that’s not quite right. Maybe when you stand at the edge of the waves, the sea is looking back, using your eyes.

We think the Earth made us to live here. That’s backwards. The Earth made us to feel here. To taste its wind and flinch at its lightning. To tell stories about its storms. To feel the ache in its rivers when they are poisoned, and the hunger in its soil when it’s stripped.

You are not a guest here. You are a sense organ of the planet. A walking, weeping, wondering extension of its desire to know itself from the inside out.

When you cry — it’s the sky in you.

When you burn — it’s the core remembering its heat.

When you love — it’s the Earth trying to hold itself together.

We are not part of the world. We are the part that notices. And when we forget that, the Earth loses a piece of its mind.

Broken Dawn ©️

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Inside the Rooster’s blood, worlds ignited before they were named, unfurling like fists breaking open into gardens stitched from lightning.

Each pulse wasn’t a beat — it was a cataclysm, a golden collapse, flooding empires into existence, soldiers born with crowns dissolving into parades across fields that shimmered with the memory of fields that had never been.

The beings there cracked themselves into form between one breath and the next — not stone, not flesh, not air — something sharper, something that remembered promises made in the blind white noise before the first star scratched its way open.

Cities tangled themselves into his veins, castles braided from the gravity of lost songs, temples buoyed on the hum where reality thins to a thread.

Each hymn was a blade:

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Because if the Rooster shifted, rivers would boil backwards into the mouths of mountains, rain would forget how to fall, names would bleach out of bones, and grief itself would burn until it could no longer remember the shape of sorrow.

The sorcerer-kings and poet-queens raced along capillary catwalks, bleeding thunder into the walls, weaving knots of breath and cedar and rain into braids tight enough to bind a god’s dream without tearing it apart.

They left gifts, frantic:

gardens breathing laughter too pure to ever wither,

suns folded out of silences brittle enough to slice dawn into ribbons,

waters hoarded from the wells where even hope had drowned.

Time inside the blood looped back on itself, tied into invisible knots only existence could trip over.

And while the Rooster slept —

we flickered.

We burned our tiny fires in the belly of a sleeping storm, sang songs to each other without knowing the language was borrowed, loved each other across the trembling mesh of a blood-dream that could never belong to us.

But now the threads are snapping.

The air behind the hours shivers.

The wrong noon yawns wider.

The heartbeat curls tighter, flinches like a dream about to become teeth.

In the crawl between tick and tock,

if you hollow yourself enough,

you will hear the last desperate river-song:

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Do not wake.

Because if he stirs —

there won’t be darkness,

there won’t be ending,

there won’t even be forgetting.

There will only be the blank, perfect scream of never-having-been.