His Road To Awe Comments

He stands on the balls of his feet, wind torn jacket about his shoulders, with pencil and paper gripped tightly in his white knuckled hands.
The smooth, even tracks before him, mounds of dirt piled on both sides, from the flurry of air that thrust him backwards towards the ends of the earth.
His posture bowed forwards in brace, his eye tilted upwards chasing grace, and if he can hold fixed enough he can spy the turn of the earth and empyrean.
He is rooted in place, heels over the threshold of creation, a moveable volume in a quiescent state, but his knees are twined and timorous.
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