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| windmill:� my brother Stanley told me that grandpa, because he died under the canvas wings of the windmill by the lake, had his soul caught in one of them, stretched like a moth in a window curtain, or like a crayfish in the net we dragged through the stream, like a paper angel mother hangs over doors at Christmas.� he is up there when the wind blows, turning, so much that he must be confused now which is land and which is sky, if the clouds are people moving, automobiles along calm blue roads, or if a green sky is raining the spikes and sways of trees.� the reflections in the lake, the things reflected, all rippling with movement and slow circles.� he's spun around and doesn't know which way is up to heaven, so he just sticks there in the canvas wing, up in the wind, wishing he could fish just one more time, in the lake or in the sky, it doesn't matter which. |