Long legs keep them above the dense underbrush. Their yellow, brown and green coloring fades into our surroundings. They rattle, whine and vibrate in a way that doesn’t seem right. If the machines were newer, not so beat up, I imagine they would be as silent as the circle-stars they were made for.The ruins pass by. Blurds of all sizes buzz through the canopy. Some trees grow impossibly high, their wide, dark-yellow leaves drinking in the light. The same vines that cover the city’s buildings dangle from tall branches. Late afternoon sun filters through, making leaves glow with a fuzzy warmth.The beauty of Omeyocan takes my breath away.The dense underbrush gives way: we find ourselves on the bank of a wide river. Tall trees rise up on either side, forming a deep, living, yellow chasm that borders angry water. Blurds skim the surface, dipping in to snatch up this planet’s equivalent of tiny fish.Ahead of us, the riderless spider doesn’t slow. Long legs plunge in and the machine turns downstream.
