I’ll run out of breath blowing on each page, trying to get this ink to dry before the water rises enough to wash it away.
Oh, but the small puddle is up to my knees now.
My feet are lost to the burnt olive depths. Still the question burns me.
Which tale shall be told?
The sun creeps from behind,
and the water splashes promise of victory. Still, these cracked fingers tremble in the presence of the ink alone.

A man journeys a dried land.
His gaze doesn’t touch the scorched brush littered about parched earth.
His sight stays...