The wind blew, stiffened, and the sun dimmed influenced by unseen clouds, and Rose saw over the pale thick gravestones the towers of the city, the blue Marin, in scintillating distance above the ultramarine waters of the bay.
        The cold wind struck her chest and face and she locked her jaws and she turned to face the blooded marigolds stained with greedy gold merciless they were, laughing, caring nothing for future, past, sentience, only with intent were they bound slaves unbound in the joy of being bound and performing excruciatingly well their 1 task. To take; to poison and possess.








        Rose escaped, flailing frantically, madly, beyond her strength, beyond the sorrel's but saving it, too, for its loyalty and its beauty, its life, and raced down hill toward cold waters
with the sea wind cold in her face and the brightness of over-sea air driving tears into her fright-glazed eyes.
        She was never the same.
        Dreaming day and night of masked shamans weaving capes and bodices of her colorful fate, of bludgeons striking from behind, of tall stark-eyed priestesses sacrificed to their people however they might long to lead them.
        The bright day shattered with the sound of breaking glass.
        Speculum, speculum, spinning like a flower on its stalk rattling in the winds of day and time and desire speculum, speculum, exploding in deep and vivid shards, scarfs, of ending
and surcease.