Black Sand

  Laugarvatn, Iceland

All these barns with their busted spidery
limbs strewn over the bunches of lupine
as horses tuck themselves into the faultline
of summer, asleep in unbridled grass.
I am driving under the drug of a glacier
becoming a river becoming a stream
and nothing here is staying, not even
the blemished plover, not even the ash.

This is a premium subscription story. Please make a $4 donation to access the individual story or a $50 donation to access all the stories in Narrative Backstage for a period of one year.

If you are already a user, but not yet logged in, you may login here.
If you are new to Narrative, signing up is FREE and easy.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.