Dying wings droned up under those eaves, youngsters and ladies, the men with them too. It kept me awake, that sorrowful sound.
A woman in a polka-dot dress leaned into the deal and clinked a glass against each of Nick's two, then screamed with laughter and stuck her tongue in Dad's ear.
The detour, named "detour" because it forced us outside of familiar spaces, pulled us through corduroy farmland and along narrow country roads hushed with summer sun laying low across the grain.
My God! Public radio's pornography.
The whole world is make-believe, nothing's as it seems. Lies are told as truth and multitudes sit down salved.
I don't want to have curiosities disillusioned by facts. I like to imagine for myself what probably is happening when rushing melt waters rise and ebb in a small river, attracting my attention in the wild nearly-dark night. Besides, when I have my own answers, I don't like being contradicted if an Expert's Truth mis-matches mine.
Eloquence is especially tawdry when applied with an illiterate brush.
"I ask her to help
with all sorts of deliveries, whatever the reason ...
like feathers and fritters and bull balls in season.
Pinecones we pick up and cartons of curtains,
chickens cluck-clucking and stinking most foul,
the maligned good fortunes of sheep shit and dirt.
She even totes dead livestock when critters get hurt."