rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Not Here

Though the sky remains free of clouds, I keep hearing thunder in the mountains. It is always distant, and barely audible, like the low growl of a beast, perhaps asleep and dreaming. The slightest breeze sets the balmy afternoon air to rustling the oak leaves, and even that soft sound is louder than the thunder, but the thunder is unmistakably there.

Miles away, canyons and mountainsides might echo with rock-shattering noise, but here it is as though the earth gave out a faint, rumbling purr. I'll be listening all night, as the waxing moon climbs and sets, and the moths flutter and fall about the porch light. All great turmoil is far away, for now. Soon the day's heat will be gone as well, and I'll revel in the cool darkness and the scent of pines unsplit by any lightning.




Sunday Verse


Stone


by Charles Simic


Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger's tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.
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