A horse and her rider lay prone on a glassy hill.
Trace a finger down the slope and we come to The
Base—which in this case we may simply call
The Problem. The horse keeps her head down but
the rider sits up, placing two shiny palms against
the slipperiness of the hill. She sees something like
the aftermath of a supernova, the early immigrations
of the English folk and realizes—deeply—where she is.
If she were to rush to her feet, she would surely
slip against the slickness of the hill and plummet down
unburdened to The Base. Where the debris awaits.
If she were to stay, she risks eternal anxiety. Another sort of death.
Heaven is smaller than she thought it might be,
although glad it includes her horse. Hell is not so far away.