Stillness In the Wind
I f you want to talk to the gods, tell it to the wind... ... his father had told him. Yet how could he tell it? The winds were still The birds sang at the wrong time Tree frogs had stopped croaking Yes, flowers blossomed and leaves shed But at the wrong time Could he still talk to the gods, Could he still tell it to the wind? They lusted at the expanse of green through the wrought-iron railings. Lush blades of grass so close-knit they formed an undulating moat around the ranch. Red brick palatial buildings occupied the front half of the property. The servants’ quarters were in the back garden before a generous array of indigenous trees lined up in a pageantry befitting the stately residence. The morning’s dew evaporated into the air, diffusing the scents of fig, camphor and grass, causing the hungrier cows to kneel on their forelegs, crane their necks, poke their heads through the fence and wrap flexible tongues around new te...