We were silver abstractions in the dark. We sat next to each other so we would not become lost. Every drop of rain cast its own shadow, and each shadow wove into the next, until they formed a coarse cortina. The world we knew was smaller; we were separated from the land but not from the sky.

The nighttimes were difficult. There was very little lamp oil, and only a few pieces of stove wood. The sky was our source of light, and it was cold and it was silver.

There was no music in the rain, no melody or majesty. When we spoke, we shouted. Our voices sounded angry, so we learned to speak with our hands. There was kindness in each gesture and touch. This was our warmth, and the rain could not steal it from us.


Author: Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

15 thoughts on “Silver”

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