This, to me, is story. Grey roots bulging on the cranky steep of the slope. Sun and leaves at a stretch. There’s a way of meandering, digging deep, before you get to any epiphany.
As a reader and a writer, I think it feels this way. So much more of the experience is earthly. Walking over the rust of wet leaves, winding past a snap of twig.
Sky is brief. But it’s what we remember.