Don Thompson

My leaf blower lifted the blackbird— wings still spread, weightless, floating on the loud, electric wind almost as if it were alive. Three or four times it flew, but fell again, sideslipped down like a kite with no string, so I gave up. . . I had work to do, and when the dust I raised had settled in that other world under the rose bushes, the ants came back to finish theirs.

I used to think the land had something to say to us, back when wildflowers would come right up to your hand as if they were tame. Sooner or later, I thought, the wind would begin to make sense if I listened hard and took notes religiously. That was spring. Now I’m not so sure: the cloudless sky has a flat affect and the fields plowed down after harvest seem so expressionless, keeping their own counsel. This afternoon, nut tree leaves blow across them as if autumn had written us a long letter, changed its mind, and tore it into little scraps.

Just enough rain an hour ago to give the wispy dry grass some hope, turning it green instantly. This place has been abandoned, the old faith overgrown, confused by brambles, and in these hard times, its upkeep cut from the budget. But we walk, soaked to the knees, making our slow pilgrimage among gravestones, speaking blurred names back into the world.