All night long, between watches, sleepless, not always sure what they’re dreaming and what they’ve drifted out of dreaming back into however briefly…faces turning from time to time to gaze back down their wake, turning together and drifting upward as if for signs of intention from above, if not quite yet in terror or wonder, at least put on notice—their sight lines briefly converging at the same place in the sky where clouds invisible till dawn are towering toward an altitude still to be reached, a shape as yet untaken, unimagined. Whatever counter-domain of exile this is they have wandered
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