| James Callahan Nov 3 | There is a sound I heard just outside the backdoor, that must always be there when a breeze blows across autumn prairie grass dried and stiff, already asleep for winter, quiet until rustled, when the cicadas singing fades without reason or rhythm but that one, lone male screams on calling for his her, bravely, awkwardly he sounds a single voice until realizing, assumedly without embarrassment but instinct as all others have stopped; and then there is only the soft rustling of dry prairie grass in a quiet hidden under missing centuries of Illinois wild cultivated into submission just outside the backdoor and a breeze reclaims what can only be heard when listening for the quiet. | | | | | You can also reply to this email to leave a comment. | | | | |
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