I count eight full-grown stalks with several more shoots starting their slow climb toward the indifferent sky. Today is clear and cold, the sun alone in its journey between horizons.
The Silent Ones approach the stand in a single-file line, their postures filled with reverence. Each bows deeply to the apoks, then removes their left glove. Small knives cut shallow gashes. Bleeding hands are clenched into fists and drops of blood fall to the dusty ground.
After the last Silent One pays respect, they all turn to the sun and yell a wordless cry in unsion. It’s swallowed by the wind but still startling, echoes though there’s nothing to echo from.
We reach such stands every week or two. Each time the spectacle repeats itself. I’d swear they have the same positions in line but it’s impossible
