August in the Mountains

Wild goats and ghosts.

August in the mountains. The day after the power cut. We move softly, as if we might startle the light. Through mountains bronzed and brittle with heat, the car threads forward.

Everything smells of thyme and burned pine. Goats startle out of the scrub, wild-eyed and already disappearing. I think of the chapel crumbling on the hilltop, door hanging loose, icons blistering with sun.

Rocks rise like sleeping gods. Trees strobe past, scorched and swaying. Heat slides between my fingers, gets in behind my eyes. The seat clings to my thighs; each shift peels fabric from skin, slow and damp with heat. I used to think I was hard to touch, but now the world presses in everywhere.

You drive one-handed. The other slices the wind, fingers skimming it like a language not meant to be read by skin. You turn your face toward me; your eyes are luminous and unreadable. By the time I look away, the road has collapsed beneath us. There is only the dark now, split open with stars and ancient names.

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