(The talker gestures.)
The etched storm roars close behind the gesture; that silvery wind buffets grasses and shrub. Low ‘pon the ground, close among blacked boots—that silvery wind had fallen from the storm. The gesture then slips, and pitches crying into a depthless marsh.
The reeds keen up a high rattle to the heights. The storm stands stillish—is the rustled curtain on a bare jut of floor.
-2002
