Saturday, April 30, 2005

It's eleven on the third night of phenomenal rain. I'm reading my eyes out to rhythms of the weather's ecstatic chorus frogs. Too sleepy to comprehend sense, I persist against heavy lids, because something may resonate to an influence. I'm hungry. All I think about is food. I'm careful--wheat toast and tea, nothing after seven--but it's eleven now, and my stomach aches for hot milk and honey. A steady rain. How do the turned-out cows fare calving tonight in their spring pasture? And what of my former homeplace? Will the hundred-year-flood waters scour the silty trenches of just-born kittens I murdered by dozens in the dreadful years of my penury? Flush them down to heaven in the alkali lake whose whiteness gives caustic suck to the martyred? 11:41:12 AM    comment []