I promised the quintet I would keep perfect time. They held their rhythm steady until the percussion swelled below. Only one rushed ahead, succumbing to the push of the new meter. The five reunited as the drums faded.
The ancient cypress shelters the barren hillside pasture, shrouding our playground in shadows. Somersaults and log rolls dance in the dust as wind whispers our secrets. Three mounds sift through my fingers into the darkness below, interring my heart forever with yours.