They Bowed

Photo prompt: Sue Vincent

 

“They bow, you see,” Mir explained.

The child held on silently to his hand.

Mir peered down at the small head, so uncharacteristically still, the red curls shining like molten gold under the sun.

The quiet lingered and Mir did not break it. More words would not change how there was only so much one could say about some things.

A bird fleeted close. A bee buzzed by. Somewhere a donkey brayed and a dog’s bark answered.

Still the child did not move.

Mir let the air in and out of his lungs mark the passage of time, even as he knew it would not be measured in the same way by the child. Nor would it matter. Time is rarely what it seems to be, anyhow.

The air shimmered. The scent of smoke wafted from someplace beyond the fields, and in it mixed the faintest hints of manure and baking bread.

A caterpillar inched its way atop a blade of grass.

“There is no wind,” the child finally noted.

“There is not,” Mir confirmed.

“Are they tied together?”

“They are holding limbs.”

The child looked at her own hand in her grandfather’s. She did not look up, but Mir could feel the connection being made as it wove a thread of understanding between the two of them, between them all.

A hush fell. Then a sudden breeze rippled through the field and whistled an unnamed sound as it passed through the stacks. The tips nodded.

The child bowed back.

 

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt: Wicker

 

The Long Night

burial cave israel

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

The long night arrives

Wrapped in ends

Of dreams

And threads of hopes.

A tapestry

Of what may come

Therein,

As unfettered souls

Are finally free

To roam

Within.

Where darkness

Becomes its own

Light,

That holds

No more an actual

Night.

 

 

 

Note: The photo depicts an ancient burial cave in Israel

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Night

 

Fuzz Guard

 

Ducky AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz

 

Listen up

Little fluff

There’ll be no mischief

And stuff.

Best make sure

That you stay

In the shallows,

If you don’t

Wish to meet

Claws as gallows.

There will be no

Dissent

Till wings let you

Ascend.

So since you are yet

To create

Actual feathers,

You will heed

Pond-time rules

By your elders.

 

 

For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Feathers

 

 

Fussy Fossa

fossa-676878_1920 SeaReeds from Pixabay

Photo: SeaReeds on Pixabay

 

“Is it a mongoose?” Molly squinted.

“Kind of cat.” Alfred raised his camera.

“No cat nor mongoose. It’s a Fossa. Belongs to the Viverrids.” Know-it-All Natalie noted, head-to-toe in expensive expedition gear.

“Vye-ve-whats?” Molly blurted.

Alfred shot Molly a warning glance, but it was too late.

“Viverrids. Civets. Genets. Or, if you need the very basics: Mammals. Endemic to Madagascar. Carnivorous. Eat lemurs, mostly, though they won’t turn their nose at lizards or birds or tenrecs.”

Alfred sighed. There’d be no stopping the Nataliepedia now. The woman was the bane of their group. He eyed the animal. Vye-ve whatever. Looked like dorky cougar to him.

“Nice fur,” he tried.

“You better not even think of it,” Natalie admonished, delighted. “They’re protected by fady. That’s local for taboo, in case you didn’t know that, either.”

Bet you aren’t, Alfred grumbled internally.  Are fossa too fussy to have YOU for lunch?

 

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Madagascar

 

In The Lap Of Luxury

dinner AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

A warm dinner.

A choice.

Wood enough for warmth

And cooking.

Decent clothes.

Shelter.

Water.

What millions would call

The very lap of

Luxury.

 

 

For Kate’s Friday Foto Fun: Luxury

 

Preview Warmth

Preview Warmth NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Feel the midday

Glow expand

Sense the gently

Heated sand.

Dampened clothes,

Digging hands,

China they’re intent

To find.

Make the most

Of wonderland.

It previews warmth

So close behind.

 

 

 

For Terri’s Sunday Stills Challenge: Warmth

 

 

A Heart, Missing

Heart Yael Yehuda

Photo: Yael Yehuda

 

There stands the empty crib

The room that will not hear

The sounds of cries or coos or laughter.

There are the walls,

Fresh paint

Fresh pain

For the awaited,

For a broken chapter.

A heart

Missing

Breast and breath

For an eternity of loss,

Till the hereafter.

 

 

Note: Dedicated with love to all empty-armed mothers (in all their manifestations and realities and outward presentations), on this Mother’s Day.

For Debbie’s One Word Sunday: Missing

 

 

The World To Hold

Berlin StreetArt1 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

Listen to the sound

Of children

Playing

Under the careful

Eye

Of matriarchs,

And the friable

Hold

Of the world suspended

By a thread.

Perhaps there is no

Safer

Sentinel

Than a wise grandmother’s trunk

Lifting

The future

Over her head.

 

 

For the Lens-Artists Challenge: Street Art

 

 

In Denial

egg-583163_1920

Photo: stevepb-282134 on Pixabay

 

“He’d never do that.”

“But he’s such a nice guy!”

“She’s lying or she’d have complained sooner.”

“He’s a pillar of the community.”

“Why ruin a man’s name?”

“I’ve never seen him do anything.”

“He said he didn’t do it. What else do you want?”

“Kids are unreliable.”

“Women lie about this stuff all the time.”

Even when videos surfaced following one victim’s suicide. Even after he was convicted. Some kept claiming he’d been the one wronged.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Denial in 77 words