This morning I found my glasses. They were made to help me read, more, I find, they help me focus.
Red mud rides up the hem of my pant legs and soaks through down to my socks and into my bones. I push against physical exhaustion with the determination that deliverance is a town somewhere south of here.
My house is cold as wet rocks. The firewood is slow burning and doesn't really catch rather just sits about smoldering for hours not producing much heat. The freeze happens between midnight and morning.
The birds are nesting: starlings build their nests in the eves of the arena
woodpeckers shoot
their rapid fire tat a tat tat on the metal girders and it is gunfire.
Dry Creek is turbid and rolls boulders and trees noisily down the banks. I watch the river rise in feet as it rains in inches. Spring pushes up and out and the rain washes parts of the road away.
I searched thirstily for the glass beside my bed
My arm and hand numb
unable to grip
the glass slid from my hand
shattered on the bare floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment