behind my house is a field of short, gnarled trees that once grew walnuts. they are lined like tombstones. behind my field are more fields but these of grey/blonde willow wheat that is rotted and limp on long stalks . they jerk to and fro in their slow deterioration. behind my wheat is a ridge of a great, smooth mountain that is tan with patches of deep green trees throughout. it is reassuring and calm.
but there is the threat of a storm now. it gathers a hem around the sun and seals it tight. my trees become charred suicide addicts, frozen in twisted, limboland poses for the rest of eternity. the wheat becomes frantic, alcoholic mothers with bloody meat cleavers and selective memories. the mountain becomes a cowardly partisan, rising up in sharp ridges and becoming as dark as the sky. and i tremble, watching silently. |