The lake dry; it seethes. Rust creeps through brittle reeds, seeps into the rustling seed-heads— one stalk bows beneath the weight of the blackbird's feet. From the path edge the fat lizard barks, a silent croak. He pivots, sprints over sticks, plunges into shallow hole. His dull eyes glowing in the hole— The late heat spreading, prickling the inside of our faces— an earth crumbles away around us, scales dropping from the eye. And I love you, and I think time is mind— our heads globes of unsifted time. A disc of mist floats up, brightens above the live oak. Far grass tips wave, bend, flow. The doom is in their roots too— but it is still so early, the sky is still stiffening to a blue so dark and clear I shiver to shake a finer silence from its skin. Copyright © 2016 Noah Warren. Used with permission of the author. |
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