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