your ears and the landscape they jut from

You might think there's something loose in here, with the almost drunk way they clatter around, not unlike a fire of cameras clicking away in canyons.

 

Yesterday was fine, tomorrow has promise, but today there's a shadow we're living in that widens. "Who are these people?" you ask when we're finally away enough. My answer hangs high above the low branches we're under.

Gravity scoffs gravely, throws up its hands in a way I admire wholly. After seconds, nothing's left of it, not even crumples.

 

There's a wave of the softest thunder there will ever be. Then the stomach in you grumbles, just more added interference.

Your face is uncomfortably serene, in a way that would suggest the playing of poker. You say, stating it flatly, not asking: "Do you see my point. Do you see the point I was making or trying. They're just, you know."

 

My answer is fine, perfect, but I look over and see that your ears and the landscape they jut from are suddenly scorched beyond believing.