noon

at noon there is no shadow on ṭīdmar. nothing to stand behind, nothing to stand in.

the white burns upward. the sky leans down. for an hour they press so close that a walker forgets which one is under the feet.

i do not do this to them. it is only what a mirror is, when there is too much light and nothing to refuse it.

i tell them to cross by night. i say it in the cracks, in the wind, in the cold. some listen.