and bearded take their picnic in the truck and have
to eat in the truck because of the snowstorm. It can
snow anytime here. Like everyone else, we live by
waiting. The husbands and wives pretend there
is something real out there in the blizzard. Through
the windshield they can see the faraway river, the
cold stones on its banks. The storm is over in a few
minutes and then they can go and pick their way
through the wet leaves. They go before they finish
their food: a collection of twigs. We watch from
underground. They stare at a river until they are eyes
or nothing. Love piles up because there's nowhere
to go. There's nowhere to go in here.
No comments:
Post a Comment