They had the effect of sirens on our pack horses; clouds that twisted into indigo tipped hills, flattened to matte sky, then slid into cloud again. At a pace like sand in an hourglass, so that you never caught the moment of change— even if you thought you had been watching for it.

The ponies were ever pulling taught on the reins, ever challenging the creeping shapeshifters to form a crag that couldn’t be climbed.

And odd as it seems, I never once considered what would become of my poor body if they stepped too high.

Ravines made dark traces over the land which (I now realize) must have echoed with the bones of mountain goats and cocky saddle ponies, of farsighted girls with sunburnt forearms.

But they seemed as harmless as old scars as the hooves clopped along, and I don’t think we would have stopped to wonder if we had gone too far until we were waist-deep in stars. It’s a good thing that the trail curved back to valley before then, or I suppose we would be climbing the asteroid belt by now— making friends with a half-dozen wandering moons.