to the moving earth
With a collapsible umbrella pushed into a pocket of my raincoat, I walk through northern Manhattan along streets cleaned to black by downpours and street-sweeper machines, following the ridges and hills. Rain throws a scrim over the Hudson River to the west. To the east, the wet magnifies edges and lends depth to colors. Long galleries of elms, interlaced and arched, drip with accumulated water. Birds shelter under the branches, flashing a wing here and there, unsettling leaves, shaking droplets down. The wind in the trees, birdsong, the swish of tires, the crunch and splash of my footsteps — every sound seems solemn. Does the wash of rain muffle everything, or does wetness change how we hear?
delivered on winds
© 1 Apr 2008, Heather Quinn (edited 27 Jan 2011) all rights reserved