The last goodbyes of light. The clock strikes 8:30 and I lay down to rest. That is how you rest, right? Cotton on springs on metal on stone, wrapped in adobe, capped by vigas. My window sits wide open, gnats spiral in front of the mesh. Waiting for a breeze to flow down the canyon, sweating, I contemplate and pray. Ecclesial verbs, but what or who am I speaking to? Who did I want to hear me? From the ponderosa boughs, the hermit thrush has been singing for hours, as the tangerine peels of clouds thickened into dark blue and grey bruises. From its tuffaceous perch, the canyon wren has been singing for hours. As they sing together, language spirals like the gnats, maybe creating the breeze that strikes the moisture of my body with a moisture of its own. Are you paying attention?
Lightning presses its crooked fingers on the rim above, alighting the glittery tears. A simultaneous tumble of thunder so loud that I think of closing the window, but I don’t. I want to see the crystal when the geode splits apart. The rain is a humming static, multiplying against the mesh, showering my books on the windowsill in mist. The sheets reach my chin and I think, yes, I know where this came from. I know whose tears these are and I know who I want to hear me.
Powerful.