Like Smoke, Like Memory VII

The mask gazes toward us now, not confrontational, not inviting, just present. The field is bare, but not empty. The flattened grasses ripple slightly underfoot, as though remembering the shape of footsteps from last year. We are reminded of mythic wanderers — Orpheus, perhaps, not descending into the underworld, but rising from it, ready to pause on the threshold. Light touches the figure gently, as if it recognizes them.