thoreau and transistor
The stars, I imagine, would scream if given a voice. The still lifeless rocks would cry. The careful mosaics of leafy silhouettes would shatter like broken glass.
And meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Words vacuumed from our lips and ferried towards the flaming sun. The whispering moon. How long can these feet stand to walk? They fly in chaotic procession. Unplanted. Called forth by nature’s screams.
Words would move hypnotically into emptiness and abandonment.
So will the wind trust who we are?
