My sundog, my cloud, my wild prairie,

I write this on a rusty scrap of metal on the Golan Heights, perched on a gutted tank with the sun and wind in my hair. I have not the slightest notion where you are. Do not fret, for the key to your rescue is patience. Delay is of the essence.

I find traces of your blood on the ground, and I caw like a crow, lamenting your pain. How did you survive these battles? Are you still battling, or have you forged an uneasy truce? I yearn to bandage your wounds, but I know you will persevere. When I find you, I will soothe every scar, I will whisper healing into your bones. Haste is futile, so I sit motionless and wait.

I can touch your surprise from here. How can I not know your calendar? Am I not your sunrise, your crown, your patient zodiac? To come for you early would be mayhem, would be to fling the chick from the nest before its wings learned air. Dally for me, my foundation, my earth, my summer rain.

Four sunburned soldiers are walking through the grasses. I will give them my letter to deliver. Fold me into your breath when you read this.

The Third Letter ยป