Burning rivers in the night ( The Dragana tales)

There is a crack. A thinned out sliver of a self gone down; broken by lines of transatlantic fury. The hard things that splinter when they break.  Like a moot entry on an empty shelf;  Half-veiled like a cryptic sun reflecting awkward directions. Cords are ripped and frayed. It is a winters day as she finishes up the sorting. But there is a quality of light as life slips wordlessly away. MB