The hills are the spine of the world
The clouds bumping together in their haste to find the valley’s spillway millrace.
Now only their spine’s mark
All that’s visible in the rain clouds advance.
Below the village pushes up the umbrellas
Maybe shivers
As those hills disappear away again.
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Shouldn’t that be “spines mark”? and not “spine’s mark”?
I won’t dare tell him!
Don’t wake the giants.
Nope!
Haunting.
Yep
Tidy minds push for punctuation’s drumbeat to allow for the beading of
The rain off of the deer’s skin
There’s a rhythm in the rivulets pulsing down the path
Under the darkling trees
A family tenses
At past present and future
Hanging on their
Having been discovered
Our eyes meet as he decides
That they should slip away.
They move off slowly at first
The herd unheard by me
Heard by my dog
His notice of forest punctuation
Causing my blinking eyes to meet those of the pig
He Yellow tusked out
Into movement and sight from the gloom
They following his lead away.
I think it safe to consider breathing again.
I feel the gloom of all the rain, Jim. Do pass along my praise to Paul. I shiver just in the reading! I have been thinking about the way rain is praised for what it brings in nourishment, but when it is too powerful for the landscape, it’s coming is ominous!
We can vouch for that these past months Debra
Paul certainly has a way of making us feel his every word, doesn’t he, Jim? He is such a mystery man making his words seem a little mysterious.
He is an enigma Michelle!