words
SCRIPT: Hermaphroditus / Rebis / Rubedo

SCRIPT: The High Road

jubilee, 2022

It had been 50 years to the day since they had let the old clock wind down (though they had no way of knowing that, of course.) Still, some of the older ones who had bothered to keep track themselves celebrated the occasion in their own quiet ways. Maybe it was a coincidence, I couldn't say, but on that day, every year, the meadow around the tower always seemed a little livelier than usual. Some say it was in the way the cool May sun shone through the winding branches of the Live-Oaks. For others, it was the breeze—how it set the grasses whispering their sly, seedy secrets; sent the clouds marching across the great grey sky.

Whatever the case may be, the shade of the clocktower, which had long ago overlooked an overworked intersection on an overpopulated highway, was once again teeming with life and laughter. Families, in the multitude of meanings they had been restored to, ate well and bathed deeply in the fine golden dirt. Deer-neighbors, less fearful now but wise as ever, bounded between boulder and bush. Even the stubborn little manzanitas seemed to beam in their own strange ways.

They had no time, and so plenty of it. And as the hours crept by in ceaseless relay, none of them—not the little ones nor the grown, not the buck nor doe nor fawn, not even the crows sat far above the distant lawn—heard the bell toll. It hadn't, and wouldn't again.


looking for signs, 2021

You’d spent the last weeks wandering around, looking for signs.
Mostly they left you unsatisfied—
a duck flies by overhead, and you can’t even tell whether it’s headed north or not.
Other times, they came in so heavy-handed as to feel cheap, cliched.

And anyway, you didn’t know what it was you were looking for—
just that you needed a sign, not an omen;
vague enough to wonder over,
but on-the-nose enough not to doubt.

Turns out, life doesn’t deal in “on-the-nose.”



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