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Connections in a Field |
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O.K., so the heart breaks. What fills the gap may not be sadness or joy, or the more elusive understanding, but a scary and lucid acceptance-- scary because there it and you are, lucid |
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because not of this time or another, particularly. An overlay, pervading, transparent, is the literal of what we mean when we say that a scene had tragic dimensions. And so, |
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much of the day the rain beat with tinny exuberance on a shed with a rusty car. Thunder rattled the hours, and what they were they were-- the cries of distant hounds or birds startled from the underbrush. A goatlike smell when the septic tank backed up. |
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Of course, the question became: Where is such clarity, if one cannot say when? A hunter stood in the field as the day went brown-edged. He walked off with the beginning rain, his arm crooked at the gun barrel pointing his way home. A local, uninvolved scene, |
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and still the feeling stuck with me that had they cast ballots or thrown dice to see if Lot's wife lived the result would have been the same: not the end, necessarily, but the way |
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a clod crumbles beneath the heel, part of a journey feet are busied with, that will be undergone. The rain seemed to whisper, What you needed to know became a bad debt, in time. Earlier, the goddess of grain |
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| gave a passing look, moving unencumbered through the
lea, which slowly, during the afternoon, changed to a lake of mud. |
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