rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Nothing In Particular

One afternoon recently I saw a large cloud, partly hidden by the tree just up the hidden trail, but the part I could see looked like an enormous, white dungeness crab. It was facing me, and angled slightly up as though it might sail up into the stratosphere. I watched it lose its legs and gradually turn back into just another, nondescript cloud. This afternoon I felt tired and decided to lie down for a minute, and ended up sleeping until very near sunset. I went outside and where the crab had been I saw several smaller clouds that looked like a flock of birds, hovering on their still wings until they simply dissolved, one by one, in some shift of the air.

Some might see portents in such things, but all I see is my imagination doing what it has always been wont to do: seeing things in other things, making empty metaphors with no context. Crab and birds, not bringing news of the future but reiterating the past. I don't know that seeing shapes in clouds is much different than falling asleep on a hot afternoon and forgetting my dreams. They seem equally devoid of meaning.

Had I not slept so long I might have gone out, and perhaps something would have happened— though the odds are against that— but it was too late. Instead I sat under the darkening sky from which clouds were vanishing and listened to the real mockingbird sing a series of songs. It was hot and the air was still and I imagined the quiet that would exist farther away from the freeway. The bird's music was more profound in that imaginary quiet, and my brain had no urge to make any empty metaphors. Perhaps it had fallen asleep again. I should try not to wake it. It would just annoy me.

Sunday Verse


by Linda Gregg

All that is uncared for.
Left alone in the stillness
in that pure silence married
to the stillness of nature.
A door off its hinges,
shade and shadows in an empty room.
Leaks for light. Raw where
the tin roof rusted through.
The rustle of weeds in their
different kinds of air in the mornings,
year after year.
A pecan tree, and the house
made out of mud bricks. Accurate
and unexpected beauty, rattling
and singing. If not to the sun,
then to nothing and to no one.


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