Sound is out of the east. And even first thing in the morning, the machines at the quarry sound tired. They bellow. They groan. They keen.
The Morning Porch
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
Sound is out of the east. And even first thing in the morning, the machines at the quarry sound tired. They bellow. They groan. They keen.
COMING BACK
He is back. Holidays are of little use now.
He wakes up only for his tea these days.
Walks out to the porch and he hears
the groaning of the wind, the keening
of wheels, the bellowing of dead places.
—Albert B. Casuga
Pingback: Reversed Alphabet of Rain | Via Negativa