The tangerine moon swings from the sycamore sky, bobbing behind mountains and dipping low onto the pale salt flats, gliding down as smooth as tequila, until I can see nothing but red tail lights and the dazzling piles of crystal reflecting the Morton salt factory lights. Aspiring mountains, they wait- like me- to be boxed in cardboard and sent out into the world.

Sylva Sep 6, 8:56 pm