On the edge of the world, away from the cities and country towns, far removed from the centres and fringes of the not so civilized, a gentle breeze waved across the earth. To the far horizon not a single form of life stirred. Indeed, except for the slight movement of the disturbed air, you could be forgiven for assuming another plane of existence was at play. Planets come and planets go, you would think, and matter moves from one to another. Yet despite the sense of logic, this was no easy dilemma.
Beneath the earth, at the very edge of the world, something was at play. Heat and pressure, peace and war. If only the cycles of day and night were as clear with intent as the forces that rumbled beneath the dandelions.
More than two days’ ride away, much further by foot, Macy and Angelo were at play. Their feathered bed was alive with the act of love and as they panted and thrust to the moon above, the centre of their world exploded.
History would report the events of the next four days and nights with reverence and a sense of unfamiliar awe. How could it be that the planet’s continuing spin across the universe depended on such an unlikely couple at such a critical time in such an ordinary place?
At the edge of the world, shapes are indiscernible. Tell me, when you look, what is it that you see?