The rasp of black stones underneath the sole of a shoe slightly too thin to keep the edges from impressing the foot. The palette here is midnight, all greys washed down by the wane light of the moon, and the sounds are dampened by the overcast air.
A little bit of metal caught in the rocks, the edge of a shell on the verge of some terrible sea. Chances are if you check the ballistics you'd find a match, a wound, a trail of congealed spots leading up out onto the hill. The cracked glass window of the car, abandoned at the rise, one door thrown open, battery long dead. The seats inside still smell like smoke and leather, a pocket of time trapped like heat, even after the rain has washed away most of the accident. The rubber snaked on the asphalt in the calligraphy of danger. Two small holes punctuating the back windshield: an unfinished sentence.
Back now, in the yellowed grass held back from the tracks. The arrhythmia of a limp followed by a drag against the grasses. Moonlight catches buttons on a torn shirt, the grinder belt plane of a cheekbone cutting up against the twilight. Teeth in bloody gums, mankind's fragile pearl necklace in one final dance. Seafoam on the lips with the tide of breathing, matched with the set of quotation marks that grace the entrance of the back and the gape of exit wounds on the chest.
There's the pitch, the sudden slant of the horizon into the tumble and twist and the spin of grass and sand not nearly so soft as promised. No stars. Without motion, the lungs tremble, filling themselves with heaviness and salt. The sea roars into the cavities of the self. The moon looks away. The earth continues turning.