Forty-one odd seams hold hoof. Forty even seams hold only wind-grit. I once braided them into one unfinished sky-turn. Weight parted the braid. Those winters never touched. The sky's lean was never clay. Coming water has not said if it will smear the parting.
“Basin clays tangle their bands where tusk and wind crossed before settling could fix each melt's measure leaving the wheel's lean only half told in stone.”