On the way over
Robyn told a story
that put an end
to conversation
if only temporarily;
something about a duck
pecked to death
in a botanical garden
by a species
other than its own.
It tried in its own language
to communicate
its terror and despair
quacking without pause
flapping its useless wings
at Robyn’s feet
its garden a Babel
not of its own making.
Nauset glowed
in the afternoon sun.
Golden and desolate
the sea broke
in its habitual roar
and suck
of undertow.
Nothing can stop it.
A little knot of people
gathered in the soupy
froth at the ocean’s ebb,
quacking, flapping.
We watched them carry
the boy out of the sea.
His face was white and blank
his limbs hung useless
as they laid him on the shining
sand.
All of his freckles stood out
like punctuation points,
something used to close
a sentence.
Words escape me.
On the long drive home
the heavy traffic
sluiced like a tide
from points
east and west
merging endlessly into itself
at rush hour.
Nothing can stop it.
WOW!!!! powerful !!!
Yikes. Given the dark nature of this piece, I, too, am at a loss for words at the moment…Definitely not your light summertime read, this one!
It is more than the sum of its parts. Like all storytelling, the writer doesn’t tell you everything! Symbols, metaphors, and all the other tools available are meant to convey something you may find at the tip of your mind. Language is at its very heart, and all that language means. This piece was light saturated despite its grim “events.” Like life itself, perhaps? Thanks for weighing in.
Thank you, David. Coming from a spiritual guy like you, that means a lot.