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Show VIOLENCE Rainclouds have been stacking up against the horizon for hours, and I can't sleep. Wrapped in the climbing ivy, the house still shudders, and whenever the wind lifts pineneedles slide in patches down the pitched roof. It is the beginning of autumn. Why else would so many trees surround my sleep? Standing at the window, I can barely see, beyond that vast stretch of pineforest, the glow from the lights of the city, which Is, even now, something more than I expected. Nothing has changed. I've been in the country three months, and still, each night, some new distraction arrives, like a moment of unexpected feeling: moonlight just broke through the clouds and fell into my room, onto a table where a glass of violets dilates the watery, white air. Maybe that Is why people are always so kind to these hills. Maybe that is why the landscape always seems to prefer us this way: we should not be alone. The summer's heat has blistered the glacial stones along the valley floor, but now the days are cooling, and the redwings axe disappearing from the fields. Now, in the evenings, I sit out on the porch and watch the water beetles closing in circles on the weed-choked pond: there is nothing to be afraid of. As soon as the sun sets, the pond recedes into the distance where the dairy barns and silos are making their way in the dusk, and it's as if I could turn my back |
