The crickets have to compete with my tinnitus, and the tinnitus seems louder when accompanied by the whirring of the computer. Outside it is cool now, and I can hear the crickets more clearly. In the house it is still July, but outside the night remembers spring and anticipates autumn. The still air is scented both by things growing and things in decay. The oak leaves brought down early by the heat and stuck under bushes where the irrigation water helps their disintegration have an earthy and musty smell, but a late-blooming gardenia adds a sweetness to the air. The starlit night sprawls across time while the crickets pulse. I can't remain indoors where the hour drags and my ears ring so loudly. Out to the open air to let this stagnation vanish skyward.
by Lucille Clifton
the mississippi river empties into the gulf
and the gulf enters the sea and so forth, none of them carrying anything, all of them carrying yesterday forever on their white tipped backs, all of them dragging forward tomorrow. it is the great circulation of the earth's body, like the blood of the gods, this river in which the past is always flowing. every water is the same water coming round. everyday someone is standing on the edge of this river, staring into time, whispering, mistakenly: only here. only now.