learning how to read the calm
the children know, and they make kites from sticks and newspaper.
i wake at night in air that doesn't move. that doesn't bring sounds of heavy breathing cows or the midnight shuffle of pancho the horse. there is no wind as relief. these are nights i can not feel space, but i feel my distance. i lay in bed and think of the moon and imagine myself getting up to pee, walking, heavy and bulky through the moist, still air.
the river, even in the middle of the
afternoon, sits without waves. they say that glass is made of sand, but i have seen it made of water. i have seen a black mirror stretch between land.
i am sitting with joselino on the balcony of the boy's house, asking him questions about the respiratory system while i watch the river, while i smell the rain, while the new wind dries my sweat and makes me remember the need for sweaters.
he has paused and i bend my head to look for another question and i ask something about a valve in the tr
aquea. when i look up, i see a different river, one now surging with white caps under a sky that now grumbles as it forms and unforms clouds racing over rough atmospheric terrain. suddenly, what is out there is now upon us, possessing plastic chairs and throwing them against the wall. towels and loose paper dart through sharp unpredictable patterns. joselino claims that the rain god is angry because we are studying.
the other boys pull out their kites to run the waves of air. those with out jump off the step, chest forward, arms out, into the wind, hoping to become that light material that goes up and up and up.
the children know, and they make kites from sticks and newspaper.
i wake at night in air that doesn't move. that doesn't bring sounds of heavy breathing cows or the midnight shuffle of pancho the horse. there is no wind as relief. these are nights i can not feel space, but i feel my distance. i lay in bed and think of the moon and imagine myself getting up to pee, walking, heavy and bulky through the moist, still air.
the river, even in the middle of the
afternoon, sits without waves. they say that glass is made of sand, but i have seen it made of water. i have seen a black mirror stretch between land.i am sitting with joselino on the balcony of the boy's house, asking him questions about the respiratory system while i watch the river, while i smell the rain, while the new wind dries my sweat and makes me remember the need for sweaters.
he has paused and i bend my head to look for another question and i ask something about a valve in the tr
aquea. when i look up, i see a different river, one now surging with white caps under a sky that now grumbles as it forms and unforms clouds racing over rough atmospheric terrain. suddenly, what is out there is now upon us, possessing plastic chairs and throwing them against the wall. towels and loose paper dart through sharp unpredictable patterns. joselino claims that the rain god is angry because we are studying.the other boys pull out their kites to run the waves of air. those with out jump off the step, chest forward, arms out, into the wind, hoping to become that light material that goes up and up and up.
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