A Mend in the Roadby Morgan Grayce WillowNight of new location, everyday forms behind in heaps. An openness waiting for shape. Into this: clack, clack, clack. Ticking names on fingers: cricket, tree frog, catbird. It is none of these. Early dawn, still: clack, clack, clack. Random cadence. Exacting. Try again: windmill, horse paddock, watering tank. It is none of these. Behind it voices of tires, three-part harmony: speed, weight, and friction. Finally, the long path of highway translates itself, each wheel caressing a seam where once the worn heart of road had broken. © 2005 by Morgan Grayce Willow. All rights reserved. |