An old man calloused, worn and tired from the sun cradles a writhing humanoid, maybe three inches long, in the palm of one hand. Covered in grease and sticky to the touch. The old man contemplates the life ahead of this strange thing while he remembers what he can of his own. The little thing wails, tears nourish the dried earth which crackles like paint beneath the old man’s feet. Wail on little thing, he says, for some life forms, salt is just as key as the water which contains it. Insects far smaller than you thrive around these pools like mammals and birds at an oasis. The blank earth just as open as the sky, untarnished, above it; vast silences are punctuated with these pools and watering holes. Scales exchange details, copying and recopying, handwriting varies, forms deviate; flowing, cursive and melodic, rushed scribblings wander. Meanings remain the same, the syntax; intact. And you, so tiny, bring vitality to all that lies underneath, that scorched ground begins to breathe again.
