They travelled with few possessions, but each tucked into their pack something to remind them of home: a curled sepia photograph of their grandparents, a stone smoothed by the waters of the lake or a tail feather of a bird that shone in blues and greens in the light of the moon.
Marooned now in the concrete and glass of the city, where no birds sing and darkness is never complete, they look up at a moon that is smaller and less bright, but they know it to be the same one. Which tethers them to the possibility of return.
Marooned now in the concrete and glass of the city, where no birds sing and darkness is never complete, they look up at a moon that is smaller and less bright, but they know it to be the same one. Which tethers them to the possibility of return.
