Cloudless.
Holiday-hot.
Barely
a breeze.
Picnic-time,
in
a graveyard.
A
tension in the air—
and
a squirrel
or
a ‘pecker
at
work in the Maple,
we
think. This grubbing,
the
only sound
around,
other
than
what
we are
saying…
Until
we hear
what
we hear
sharply
turn to
a
creaking,
a
cracking,
a
tearing:
a
broad branch,
above
our heads,
gives
way,
swings
down,
falls
against
itself.
We
are up
on
our feet.
Stumbling.
Stunned.
Strange.
No
apparent cause,
that
we can see.
It’s
just us, here.
Only
us
and
what
we
are saying, trying
so
hard to say
and
make sense of
in
the sun
among
the
epitaphs.
No comments:
Post a Comment