Two Altars
Atop the mountain, the sunset is angular and austere. Light stretches long and copper across the stone, outlining ridges like bones. The wind carries no scent, only altitude. Shadows drift westward, obedient, as if summoned. From here, the world unrolls beneath you,
a landscape seen from the eye of the departing day.
What moves you is the sheer reach of it: stone, wind, and vanishing light.
sky cut by stone edge
the sun rests on its altar
then slips into dusk
At the shore, the sun softens. It melts into the ocean without resistance. The sky bruises crimson, violet, then deepens into hush. The tide swells and recedes with slow breath, as if the earth were grieving gently. Nothing is held aloft here. Everything sinks.
You are not above anything.
You are within it.
last light on water
waves erase the footprints
before they are ours
-by April Pagaling
