apple cider is the same color as the memories of the mill; of the shining green river, the tangled roots above ground, the cobblestone walkway, of the dragonflies on stemmed stilts. i would love to lie down in the soft grasses next to the water and rest my eyes for a time, just until the sun sets— but my sense tells me that i would sleep for far longer, until the trees reach into the heavens and my hair turns to moss.
By Heather Drouse
