As the rest of the continent’s towns and villages were emptied out, ours grew more and more peaceful. But, unknown to us, the new world also had a helper. A pair of human hands to sweep the dust off our threshold. As afternoons slunk away, the stranger went for her walk. We knew she walked, but we did not ask her why or where. It never occurred to us that it was anything but a pleasant stroll: fresh air, birdsong. She followed the path to the river, listening to woodpeckers drill their way home. Listening to the rain, our constant friend. Mud and clay, snapped branches and feathers made her path. The feathers put her in mind of mother birds out to gather food for their helpless, bald young, nest bound and hungry. Hawks and eagles, prowling for baby swallows; mother swallows prowling for worms. Who eats first is all that matters. The stranger felt like a hunter, a village full of wide-eyed, hairless babies at her back, as helpless as anything on earth, trusting in a safe world made only for them, for no reason except the story was told that way.
What do You think about No One Is Here Except All Of Us?
