by Kim Fahner

A hand pressed flat against stone,
slender fingers finding
edges and chinks, gaps where
tiny green ferns perch—
a wall curved and
flush to the turn of
this hill’s highest cusp.

Clan chiefs lived here once,
and now their shades
guard the spent shell
of what’s left, husked
and sliced anatomical—
a beehived diorama.

Beneath, in shadows,
the sheep gather,
bleat out baritone warnings,
just as the sky clouds over again—
the pale sun a small tangerine,
secret, sending light beams
through abandoned spaces,
remembering what was lost.

— from Juniper Volume 1, Issue 2