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searingedrockHe likes to walk sometimes, when sky is half-lit and in the streets come the sounds of clinking plates, children, television, husbands laughing and wives murmuring. He likes to walk past gates where dogs run up and bark and bark without caring except for the fact that yes, here is something actually happening, something is different. And then he passes and they go back to waiting for something else. He is reminded of the novel 1981 and television sentinels but somehow here it is different; they remain like noisy, boxy, electric salespersons and for some reason he suffers them but they remain outside of him, separate. He is not a tall man, slight of frame, dark hair and eyes. He is burnt from the sun and his hands are hard and slender.
There is a woman in this house potting, on hands and knees and there are no children's clothes on the line. Her back is turned to him and the smoky evening seeps into everything, night crickets starting up with noisy chirps. He sees only an outline of a kneeling female form, steadfast in her task, but she has seen his approach. She remains calm but he sees her fear because she is a woman and here darkness comes on in the air and in people. Women here are taken from homes and tortured and murdered and the newspapers report nightmares. But she is potting determinedly. There is no man sitting in her porch or male silhouette in the living room.
He respects her fear and walks on without looking, staring instead at the way night sky bleeds into light, spilled ink spreading in grey-blues and purples and charcoal. He has passed the houses now and alongside the river there are only his footsteps on broken road, weeds and trees growing like a tall wave, guiding his way and the curtain of darkness descends until he sees his own house set away from the street, all wood. A small dog sits and waits patiently; she doesn't bark because he is a same thing and her person. She sits and wags and he, reaching out to upturned nose, pats, thinking of the woman potting in the dark, digging away at her fear, and the others in their houses with the televisions turned up, drowning out the night.
There is a woman in this house potting, on hands and knees and there are no children's clothes on the line. Her back is turned to him and the smoky evening seeps into everything, night crickets starting up with noisy chirps. He sees only an outline of a kneeling female form, steadfast in her task, but she has seen his approach. She remains calm but he sees her fear because she is a woman and here darkness comes on in the air and in people. Women here are taken from homes and tortured and murdered and the newspapers report nightmares. But she is potting determinedly. There is no man sitting in her porch or male silhouette in the living room.
He respects her fear and walks on without looking, staring instead at the way night sky bleeds into light, spilled ink spreading in grey-blues and purples and charcoal. He has passed the houses now and alongside the river there are only his footsteps on broken road, weeds and trees growing like a tall wave, guiding his way and the curtain of darkness descends until he sees his own house set away from the street, all wood. A small dog sits and waits patiently; she doesn't bark because he is a same thing and her person. She sits and wags and he, reaching out to upturned nose, pats, thinking of the woman potting in the dark, digging away at her fear, and the others in their houses with the televisions turned up, drowning out the night.
