After the cicadas stop humming, after the moon flushes the sky clean of stars, we hear it. A thrashing, a clanging, a hurtling, is whirling towards us from below the campground. You pace on the pulsing soil. Don’t worry, you call. I’ll take care of it. The earth is loud. Insects gather at my feet. Then I notice it: the ground has seams. Stick your finger in and up it rips, soil and roots and worms, concrete foundations, wooden beams, gravestones. Don’t! You say. But my fingers are hungry. I pull back the earth beneath your feet. I take care.
No comments:
Post a Comment