by Brendan Strong
The grass wet under bare feet. Squelching mud water squeezed between toes getting dirtier. How Do You Do? Nobody asks anymore; it;s all howya and hows it going and how are you. How you do whatever you do is your own business; it’s not done, or something to do, to ask How Do You Do?
But there is no one here. There is no road, which will do quite nicely. Gentle blades of grass brushing the base of feet, wet from the grass and muddy water that does the toes in for cleanliness. No road and no one. First one leg, then a loss of balance recaptured by the next leg, stepping out to maintain upward integrity.
Everywhere, someone is laughing or listening. Or crying. Someone, everywhere is worried. Someone, everywhere is ignoring the signs; the information flowing like rivers raging against each other. They add their voices, but their voices are as the beasts of the field; whinnies and neighs and moos. Somewhere, everyone is articulate; their voices rise like tides or waves, to drown or crush with the pure force of gathered momentum.
Here, elsewhere the water rises slowly, through tickled toes. Here, where there is no road.