Walking and William, A Story
Walked to the mill thinking of William.
Walked in the morning, sun, a carriage burning past, hoping for a
letter from William.
Walked in the afternoon, the Tinker, lame and hot, without kindling,
no letter from William.
Walked past the mill—the green paths, the hillsides, the channels, the
garden, the spring, the boughs, the bark of rain—thinking about energy
and how it might be used.
Walked in the valley, bristling with thoughts of William, nosegays and
vine, woodsmen striking axes.
Walked to town to mail a package. Thought of the hands that might hold
the paper on the other end, in the city, among people, porcelain
aglow, all processes caught, light shifting, this moment transported
to that, finally
and my heart.
Walked arm in arm in the early evening, passing several men of the
fields, behind them a plume of smoke, a drill penetrating the earth,
out of sorts, the plume, the men, a smell not unpleasant, but not
familiar either, and when I inquired, William said it was the end of
sublime, a word that until that moment I had not the luxury of
acquaintance. His ears, sweet as conch shells, gathered the idea in
their folds and despite the foregone conclusion we were elated. Later,
we peered into the twenty-first century and did not sleep so well.
Published On: September 14, 2010
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/100914f.htm