It’s never dark enough for me. I had to carry my fingernail clippings all the way to the woods & deliver them to the earth in secret so as not to feel completely parenthetical. A deer blew its nose at me from the other side of the shed. The sky behind it was pink with the lights from town.
Every time I read the word stone I picture the head of a sheep. Something about domestic animals makes me want to ruminate, grow a second stomach or a gizzard, eat the leaves off trees until the sky is dead to them. Wild things frighten me with their too-clever eyes & the sudden clatter of their too-many feet. Thank god the insects stayed small.
It turns out that if you blow on the slit in the back of a cicada shell, you can produce a high-piched whistle. (Remember, you read it here first!) Does it sound like a cicada? Of course not. It sounds like a very small appliance of unclear function. I saw an ad that said Hunters Wanted, & realized I was still wearing a blaze-orange vest. The sun had set hours ago, following an obscure schedule of its own devising.
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