Streamlined through the gracious days,
sun hidden in the subtle lights. Lights–
a burden on the taut black blanket sky.
Where are you, you ask.
You are in the spectre of the climbing Majura. Ma-Ma-Majura.
Winds catch grip on pine needle points,
pulling them out like greying hairs. Waves–
the sound of orange in the sunlight night.
Residential zoning whipping by like a bullet. We move.
Ma-Ma-Machiavellian district distribution.
Where are the dirtbikes now, you ask.
They’re crashed into the roughbark.
The raised and recessed mapping of hills and valleys bound.
You run your hand along the ridges and
leave a part of self behind.
That’s how you know the world, you know.
Taking with you and then leaving.
Ma-Ma-Macrocosmic self-reciprocation.
A change of cells, a sebum swap, a memory of hardened rain.
That’s how we know we’re nature, too.
A cut exchanged brings mutual infection.
And such, which way, the world moves.
© Sara Bell, 2026.
