Fine streaks foretell fine hunting, grandmother says. Beasts, men, berries, it’s all hunting to her. Dark streaks, dark times, with little to eat. Light streaks for feasting. She nods confidently, sitting in the sunlight, stitching.
My father laughs at her. Somewhere, there are fires burning. That’s what stains the sky.
I’m missing a bit of flash fiction, so I’ve started this. Way into the 52 prompts, but there you go.
Sarah writes poems 