Dark, broad skies, veiled light illuminates every blade of wiry grass, every wooden fissure, every contour of the hills. The broken hump in the grassy tide lost in a vast canvas of wind and color is my grandmother laying in the field. I follow a trail of traces in the grass, a sign, an old dwelling place. The path lingers on to sudden holes and pits, up slow hills, until I'm lost in the wide sky where the land ends. Though they falter my legs persist and the wooden bones she left behind, scattered lead me on to ever more wild places.