Archive
The New Bird
In spring I heard a new bird across the road. It was red-brown and easy to locate in the young leaves of a maple. I couldn’t figure out what it was, which was pretty thrilling.
Summer has now hidden the bird in leaves and I still haven’t made an I.D. The creek branch has gone dry. A week ago minnows roiled and smothered.
The bird calls. It calls from over my shoulder. In the yard I walk under the ash tree, battered by a nameless din.
by Bill Knight
Touching Earth
The earth appeared in my yard one day, and I went out to see what it was – a creamy blue-green ball hovering chest-high, unmoving. That’s not possible, I know.
So let’s say I appeared one day in space vastly enlarged so the earth again appeared to me a stock-still ball. Neither is this possible.
Nevertheless, a change was instantaneous upon my appearance nearly an arm’s length from the small orb: the attractive grab of my zillions-fold mass sucked it open in a lemony puff of liquid and gas.
I was pattered with a spray of glowing orange lavas. I received the largest shards of the earth’s metallic core into my flesh and melted somewhat myself in splashing detonations.
I was so big that the time of smaller things moved slowly, and it took minutes for the meteors of earth to arrive.
In bed last night I dusted my pillow with the grit I could not wash out of my hair and ears.
Written by Bill Knight
qarrtsiluni 