||[May. 19th, 2019|11:58 pm]
Was it last night, or the night before? Nights run together anymore, and I don't recall. But I woke to hear strong gusts of wind, and rain furiously pounding the roof. It seemed somehow weak, though. Storms have little glory to them, breaking over these streets and houses ranged across this flat landscape. |
I listened in the semi-darkness and tried to remember how the wind sounded in the tall, massed trees, and how the fallen rain gathered quickly, running downslope toward the streams it would swell. I conjured the image of the vale where the abundant frogs lived&mash; still live, with luck— and how they would sing a celebration to the flowing water. With that thought I returned to sleep.
Today, afternoon followed a gray and misty morning in which the storm had spent itself, and the silent clouds drifted fat and white away in bright sunlight. The sounds of afternoon were almost all machines, and airplanes glinted as they sped across blue sky in the freshened air. The mockingbird sang, but the town ignored it and rushed along the freeway, rumbling to itself. The bird and I alone shared the moment, while the grasses silently grew.
( Sunday VerseCollapse )