Wood lice poured from the rocks and rolled into balls under my fingers. They poured from the rotting stump of the tree where mushrooms sprouted dimly, their vents like the convolutions of a vegetal brain. Under the light by the back screen door, opposums and racoons foraged pushing and tipping the tin plates. The whole town was fragrant and moist. Commuter trains hooted and a deep fog horn blew.
Church bells rang.
My sister took me to the woods. We drank from the river, the water sparkling over variegated stones, snakes in the cool hollows. Last modified on 28 July 1999.