[Triggered by Janisse Ray’s definition of “howl” in her essay “Montana,” from Wild Spectacle. And by Maya Stein’s “Right Here, Right Now” writing practice.”
the scent of lemons on the front seat of the car, newly picked.
The language in The Song of Lunch, the hand gesture
a semaphore to the waiter that attention is needed
cannoning off the wall.
A ricochet.
Janisse Ray's howl: "A sound-line connecting those separated by space."
A shimmering, the light moving across the front yard
the last of the pollinator attractors fading and drying
tiny fluffy seed heads, lavender tint of Florida betony
the need to harvest the last of the lemons,
to remove the dead Spanish needles,
hundreds of spiky seeds forming a barrier around the lemon.
A few lazy native bees, a reminder
something beneficial remains,
something attracts, even now
as the year turns from Fall and haphazardly tracks toward winter,
memories of heat and humidity interwoven with crisp cool air
days cannonballing between summer and winter,
ricocheting.
False summer, followed by freeze.
No rain no rain, no rain. This dryness.
The greens on the table by the front door need planting
I nibble them as I come and go
the leaves so fresh, so
deeply green, glossy,
leathery texture.
Tatsoi, tatsoi, tatsoi.
Like a bird crying to its mate,
"sound-lining" across the space between, a
reminder of how simple food could be.
Howls pent up,
pent-up howls
what if all those howls were voiced?
"A sound-line across empty spaces"
a connection.
I see/hear you.
But why here, why now,
to unleash the collective howl?
Sound can shatter, can
bring structures down indiscriminately.
Is this then
how the revolution begins?
With those painful howls?
Shimmering shimmering.
The scent of lemons,
the prick of Spanish needles
The piercing thorns of the lemon tree
The quality of light casting magic on
the grandkids in the distance
playing some wild form of basketball.
The harmonic ping of ball striking pavement.
Groans and giggles
laughter dissolving age divisions.
Lacrosse in the backyard
connecting two girls with god—a prayer, a sacred game
Shimmering, shimmering
A sempaphore
"Stop! hand raised, palm outward
"Stop right there!"
"Stop right there!"
Do not go any farther.
3 minutes passing.
People connecting,
scratch of pen on paper,
click of keys on computers
"a sound-line connecting separate spaces"
Shimmering, shimmering.
That is what to remember.
That is what to remember.
P.D. Crumbaker
Peace
But not complacency