That Last Hard Thump

The clouds behind us are filled with the setting sun. "I saw the light - I saw the light." While before us a gun metal nimbus predominates. Crows.

Before the blueberry bush from which every berry had been torn (mostly likely by bears) J. said "I stand correctly." The tin bucket with a crooked spout wedged in the stone wall for a quarter century which I have never once passed without wanting. T. says we must come to see what our wanting means, how destructive it is. Did I mention the crows?

Did I mention the apples? The fallen graves on which spider webs lay like crepe, spackled with dry grass from the mower's pass? You keep coming back so you must want something. By the south wall, where the poor kids were buried anonymously in the nineteenth century, a single black feather.

Crab apples and macintosh, the later hard and sour, but already shading the red that makes one think of autumn. Circling, always circling. Coming back past a crushed milk snake, door left open to the barn, the one in which so many suicides have leaped. No dancing in that last hard thump.

Or else we are forever a lick of fiery light suspended in the katabatic wind. Yes. It's your space, read the way you want to read. No one limb transcends another.