Is it some turn of wind that funnels them all down at once, or is it their own voices netting to bring them in -- the roll and churr of hundreds searing through river light and cliff dust, each to its precise mud nest on the face -- none of our own isolate groping, wishing need could be sent so unerringly to solace. But this silk-skein flashing is like heaven brought down: not to meet ground or water, but to enter the riven earth and disappear. Copyright © Debra Nystrom. http://www.wlu.edu/~shenando |