A strand of tissue twists in relative dark. It is surrounded by translucent beings who curve to submerge it in shadows of green, blue and brown, obscuring its torsions like bottles made of colored glass.
Small wonder this smaller wounder is noticed and ignored, which is what it wants. It twists because it has withered on one side and wishes not to be seen.
Poor pearl-pale ligament wisp, thrust in the pocket of topsoil's unconcern. Earwigs inspect you, eyesight neglects you. Nothing for it but to emit a hoarse ittermittent whistle. You do this by forming a Z and pumping your strand-end to expel air -- barely audible even in silence, yet this is your song.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment