Accidental Weather

Accidental Weather · Sherod Santos I am tired of filling up pages with words. So too, the weather's mood has awakened along the pale branches. The mud ducks squatted in the reeds behind my house are an abstract notion of all that is bored in myself—there is no reason to contradict them, or pretend I can change them into something else as easily as I can choose another metaphor. It is the point of view of these ducks, their dull color, their particular demands to be specific. The way a laborer holding a shovel full of dirt is specific when he calls obscenities to a woman walking past without spilling the dirt or disturbing the web of dust across his forehead. But I keep thinking about the huge onyx burning your soft hand, which is just an image, and also obscene. Which is why you occur here so often, anonymously, like a season occurring to a grove of trees. That is what is meant when I say I'm not prepared for what's going on outside. Take the windows for example: there is something called October standing on the front porch, kicking its boots. It is tired of doing its work, tired of complaining. The Missouri Review · 41 ...