We walk towards the doorstep
clutching each other's sweaty hands.

Thousands of children in a line
outstretched across the glowing landscape.

Alone in a field of berries
a colorless house reflects the eerie orange sky.

We feel blackberries squish between our toes
purple juice drips down our happy fingers.

The sinew of our muscles is knotted together
the very thread of our bodies interlaced.

A quivering thing pulls at the base of our throat
some vague purpose tugs us on.

Our nails make little red marks
welts on the hands of our friends.

We held onto them too tightly
never wanting them to let go.

Is it daybreak or dusk,
dawn or twilight?

We cannot feel the rain
our shadows play in the burnt orange sky.

Are we children or old men?
Are we crying or laughing?

Our instinct too impatient
the under-ripe berries taste sour on our tongues.

We march on towards the doorstep
barely leaving footprints in the field.

Imagining what it would be like
to hold the world in our hands.