She knew there was something ahead. Something to look forward to. There would be another flash. There would be another moment of glory and purest light. She knew it would happen.

So, looking out, she went on.

She climbed. She scrambled. She fell and scratched herself on the brambles, and she skipped willy-nilly down the sides of the slopes. She forded streams and crossed bridges, and even burnt a few.

She fell in love with another traveler, and they bore children and taught them to climb and splash and run and navigate by way of the stars. And looking out, they went on.

The children grew tall. They set off for other slopes and vistas, and still she climbed.

And all at once, she stopped. She looked. Looking out, she stopped stock still and wondered what to do.



An audible pause in the poetry.


There are two types of caesurae: masculine and feminine. Two of us in our caesura. He could not stop. Did not stop. But he saw it too. She had stopped.

Shouldn't she be doing something? Going somewhere? Shouldn't she be moving? But what do I do with this? Where do I go? How do I do it? Shouldn't I know?

Just be quiet, he told her. Wait a minute. Catch your breath. You will know it when you see it. Look around. Recover. Wait here.


The fog cleared, and the sound was the surf. The flash came again. And again. The sun began to glitter on the edges of the waves, and the breeze blew salty tears across her face.

And looking out, she went on.

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