“Do you remember the fields?”, the spire asked in a low, rumbling timbre. “The lush, green valley that stretched far beyond our sight? The lives that sprang up and played out under our watch? Now we lie on a bed of crimson rust.” It muttered as softly as a moth’s song. “Fools wish for immortality.”
The butte snorted, trusting that its friend would understand it was not being contemptuous. The snort’s nuance had been developing for millions of years. “Of course I remember. But there’s beauty in the stark too. All things wind around.”
The spire pondered this and nodded, as much as it was possible for a rock to nod.
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