By: Andrew Dahl
There is something to be said for
the sound of the wind.
Something to be said for a throbbing
quiet. And then,
of course,
there is the keen ache of
a pure loss. Something unconfused,
unentangled. Like the death
of a pet.
There is something to be said for
even
a single steamed artichoke and an
isolated glass of white wine.
Soren rubbed the condensation
on the outside of the glass,
the drops fusing
and tumbling.
He looked out the window,
saw the tarp over the dog house
flapping in the wind,
valiantly. The urgent
quiet pressed
against his ears.
I read this through multiple times. It’s layered and really pleasurable to read aloud.
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