As I sit gazing out my window Sunday morning, I think of birds that go hopping down on the grass from the trees, flicking their tail feathers, and pecking in the mud for bugs. Clouds gather up the blue sky, pushing the sun aside. Breezes usher in cool air. A car passes by on the road, home from Sunday services. Across the fence, the field is high with weeds, scattered with yellow, white, purple flowers. They bow under a sudden gust. A small apple tree sits in a plot by a little house. Its white blossoms receive the benediction of the sun, suddenly released through a hole in the gray clouds. Ever slams the door of her trailer. Inside, her potted plant wilts minutely. She looks up for a second as she crosses the road. An airplane gargles down the turbulent valley like a buzzard. She puts her hand on the car’s cold handle. She opens the door, ducks inside, starts it up, and lets it warm. Then she leaves. The sound of the car dies down in the distance. Soon the clouds start to rain. The naked trees up the hill have been praying for it. They breathe it in. It takes then a long time. The plot is long and involved.
June 1972