Thursday, July 19, 2007

The night is humid like Santiago, Guatemala, 1991, the year the 13 martyrs were shot in my backyard.

Like Nashville, 1998, when I surveyed storm water for Davidson County, when I fried fish, when the cicadas hatched, when I asked Nina to marry me.

Like Liberia (1968), where Mom lived with Peace Corps friends, where torrential rains fell each hot afternoon, where women covered their legs and not their breasts.

Like India, with her ecstatic saints and poor children. Like Viet Nam and Cuba. Croatia and Morocco.

Come firefly! Sing frog! Prowl panther!

The night is young and eternal, and God sleeps in the wet grass.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

humid nights inspire words of beauty