Telling: Streams & Logs

Dreams, Remembered & Forgot


All the men, with their shoulders and their arms, their pressing, stayed inside the tower. The tide of voices, the press and withdraw.

I am but a child to them. They do not wish to hurt me. They do not wish to be slowed by me. They have their work to do. They go on without me. I am standing, my feet in the tall grasses, meadowlark. What is it I long for?