At the very edge of summer the melodramatic clouds are gathering, the ones that are harbingers of something in a particularly sappy opera. The day takes on a shade of dark usually reserved for night. Everyone begins to move in slow motion. We feel like characters in something, start trying to remember our lines. How does this go again? Something is about to happen; what is it?
all the hard words
over there, where a jagged black line of mountains defines the horizon, someone sees the first bolt of electricity leap casually, athletically, across the sky. we begin to murmur, counting under our breaths, counting our breaths, until the crash. then there’s no point in saying anything. all we can do is listen.
rosebud this isn’t my first attempt
You know how when you’re surrounded by noise, you start hearing things? Was that a crash of thunder, an incessant rapping of rain on the roof, a torrent of water pouring down the street, or was it a booming voice, massive thudding footsteps, the sound of uncontrollable, unimaginably loud weeping? Are there giants in the mountains, giants in mourning? We might never know; all we can do is consider the probabilities. Nature or a myth? We tell one story to the children and another to ourselves.
the way the world ends in a blade of grass