Summer/Fall 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 1997 |

Summer Storm

And stay with us for this late-breaking story, said the voice,   but I was listening to the laughter of the storm, alchemical and soaring,   wild afterthought unraveling the flat sunlight. I was listening to its merciless exposure,   that moving body reiterating itself, the riddles in it, joyful and giddy, so it seemed,   as it cut and then healed itself again and again as was its nature. That storm   that would soon sentence itself to its own ending. Its healing was a quiet thing. And inside it the lambs   ate and slept, or walked, and sometimes ran from one pasture to another. Each mother and her twins   in small groups within the larger moving group, their bells   spilling into each gap and crevice of the silence. (I am inside a parenthesis, I thought. I am the watcher, apart,   though I can feel, like them, this cold wind against my skin.) All day, all night, the lambs are wandering or purposeful   up and down the hil

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