Whose property she was on was unclear, but it wasn’t Father’s. Halfway up a small mountain, belly flat against dirt, Milly took quick breaths, dust settling around her.
Had she slid down, catching herself just above a cliff?
Her boot was poised on a rock, leg bent, ready to push.
She shivered.
Milly tapped that rock with her toe instead. It came loose. She chose another stone, pushing herself up.
Once Milly was safe, she looked over her shoulder, a long way down.
Too long.
She persisted, climbing to the top. Over the highway, the sun set. Tiny dots — car headlights — passed every few minutes. “I want more. A world,” she rhymed, “to explore.” Milly yipped like a coyote. A dust storm was coming.
No one can hear our rhymes
A habit that we share
Bridging thoughts — worlds and time
Now to here — then to there