Clockland

“Where are we going?” I asked myself, sitting

on the bench in the shadow of an oak. I gaze

d northward over rippling fields, watched the

light play in the prairie grass while the wind t

ickled the tamaracks. Through the grass and

the thistles my eyes took me, further to the ri

ver and down it, till I too felt myself begin to s

himmer. Gliding over shattered waves, past c

opses of ginkgos all but foreign to me, under

the trenchcoat of a windmill whose blades sp

un like hands, I flew, past farm houses with r

oofs collapsing inward, past the ashes of last

night’s bonfires, and patches of tall grass stre

wn with syringes and the footprints of the livin

g who had forgotten how to die. How marvelo

us that they should return now, my eyes. How

marvelous that they should return, swimming

Madly, arms spinning like hands, drowning in

the precious light of late day. And this: the sha

dow of the oak tree has moved, and no one is t

aking notice. ——————————————