Overnight, the air froze.Crystallized. Now, a thin breathlies on the prairie hills.Light becomes certain in cold,not glazing, not luminous,only captured and stilled.The margin of realityis the margin of illusion.In that margin betweenthe prairie and us lies space,vastness that confirms existence.It's the air frozenand it's our awareness.Nothing more, nothing lessconfirms our belief.
The road will be deadlyand will still take icy skillto drive on.We will have safe passage.The margins will always be the spacewhere we live.
