Scree of some wild creature overhead, wing like a stroke of graphite that flickers just out of sight. On the way back, we drive through soybean fields yellowing from the heat; and whole stands of trees bent like saplings from the last passing storm. A sky the color of beaten copper. Everywhere, some reminder of the fragile. But also what persists; surprises. For miles and miles, not a house or rest stop. And then— Where did those droves of tiny moths come from, riding tiny bits of prayer flags into the wind? Bodies of soft brown. Velvet fuzz of cattails and rushes. Perhaps, this time, the boatman will let us through. We cross the Chowan River just as crickets drill tin can holes into the evening.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.