August 1, 2016
Sometimes I go home reeling, my mouth full of words.
There was a river, and a mountain, and a tree cracked in half by lightning. The wind rolled down the mountain. It rolled and unrolled the clouds.
It was dark.
It was light.
And other times I'm quiet for days, asking myself,
"What did I see?
What did I see?"
And the only evidence that something has happened: the stutter in my chest, the catch in my throat.