voting in favor of happy endings :: arthur oberg
The birds are too insistent for
quieting. They go from olive
bough to olive bough. Even if
we could catch them, they wouldn’t
keep the fire going for very long.
The horizon blurs just where you
usually see boats making it, with
small motors, to shore. Threaten
to bring in a string of professional
mourners, how will that alter the
day? Even vials of third-rate
tears are too expensive to price,
impossible to weep. Last night,
boring took on a third dimension—
high, deep as sky, almost as wide.
This morning, I went out to count
how many new almond blossoms had
fallen during the night. It was
disappointing. I had heard no wind,
expected to hear, find (this time down)
only the occasional petal on the ground.