Wind, a branch
broken glass, but still
cloud on the horizon
where a line of people walk
bent thick & thin,
walk from what they left, but
there is no where-
One foot
presses down, hurts
or slips, weighs more
than can be lifted.
Their feet! Cloaks
damp, gloves
torn. Their feet!
Slowly, the people pull
across the edge of their world.
Can you hear them coming?