Mutiny

My too-grave stone cannot stand. Its bull’s-eye cross is tired of target duty.

Stones are such somnolent creatures — they know nothing of the pleasures of flight.

It could topple at any time, in any wind. There’s no telling which breath will be its last.

It rides the turf like the ship at Sutton Hoo, waiting for the sky to cave in.

I thought I was rid of such becalming when I traded my corpse for fire’s fey wings.