It’s dead space out there, even the sounds of the big rigs laboring up the hill filter through weakly, muted.
Hollow milky mist bathes the landscape, a barrier not a wrap, denying access.
The horses shift, mere apparitions, for all their mass they are intangible.
The hot coffee slip sliding down my throat brings welcome warmth yet it fails to penetrate through to my skin.
It’s a kill zone and every nerve cracks to attention, chill and heat in a punishing waltz.
I am not so much awake as … aware.
Odd it is when the quiet without mirrors the turmoil within…
I listen in the stillness.
Yet it is in the cacophony that I hear.
About Nya Rawlyns
Crossing boundaries, taking no prisoners. Write what’s in your soul. It’s the bass beat, the heartbeat, the lyrics rude and true. Nya Rawlyns is the pseudonym of a writer who cut her teeth on sports-themed romantic comedy and historical romances before finding her true calling in the wilderness areas she has visited but calls “home” in that place that counts the most: the heart. She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or two pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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