- 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.