Jonah's profile is an angle against the sky, the float of clouds outlines the contours of his comely face. Anya cannot see the brooding of his eyes but it is there, dark spears project from their center. The beckon of starlight above them cannot overcome the shadow.
Anya words float on the breeze that cools them, brings them back to the earth and stones felt through the soles of their shoes. "Shall we be on?"
Jonah's answer is a long forced exhale of breath from his nostrils so sudden Anya feels it on her face. Her hand reaches out and smooths the back of his neck, anger radiates into her fingertips. She retreats.
The groan of weathered branches serves as conversation as they climb towards the incline. The elevation brings the deep clean of fallen pine to their lungs. Jonah is a bent back and neck before here, fall of foot after foot. He grew apart from this land and its sky long ago; he marches a refusal to acknowledge it.
But with each step, Anya grows more consumed. They diverge onto separate paths, Anya's diffuse with heaven light. She floats, a dance atop the forest bed. She pictures herself a top the high peak, a spire against a back lit sky, music amid the trees. She feels the breath of gods lift her hair about her face, pull her face to the moon above. Here, too, she is lost to Jonah, her name a distant echo on the wind.