no one knows its name, this place that is. but its here, yes, here - deep in the flat lands, alluvial edges, hidden sands settled into the low lands. summer that cooks, bakes, burns through the hard-packed earth. what remains, printed into the soft clay. hardened, still, dried clean. these god lakes made of wild shadows, of bent light, of hoof stomped mud. some say wind whistles here, openly, calling for others like itself. earth that breathes.
