friday evening. drawing maps. looking out the windows while the day turns to night. somewhere on the western edge of the continent.
and also i fed myself this poem.
You will never be alone, you hear so deep
a sound when autumn comes. Yellow
pulls across the hills and thrums,
or in the silence after lightning before it says
its names – and then the clouds' wide-mouthed
apologies. You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,
long aisles – you never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head -
that's what the silence meant: you're not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.
by William Stafford