On the Birthday of Death
It was no longer smoke, or dust, or even a cloud of fire. It was a living thing, a new species of being, born right before our incredulous eyes.
There was a flash, so bright — as if from the world’s largest camera, come to capture everyone in their work clothes.
We children ran to the top field & turned & looked. What new kind of cloud was this? What new kind of tree?
It stood for hours on the horizon, brewing its own weather, we guessed, or setting fruit. No one could imagine just how strong the wind, how terrible the rain.
But we were farmers’ kids. When we saw white birds streaming away toward the west, we knew what to think.