roof. She looked at the crates supporting the old woman and wished she could buy Dorcas a rocking chair. The beans, flavored with onion and bacon fat, had cooked down all day to a thick sauce. They ate slowly.
“Fishing good?” Gustie asked.
Dorcas nodded. “Yup. Pretty good.”
“That’s good.”
A bird called from the willow that bent over Crow Kills. Gustie swatted at a mosquito. She had gotten used to Dorcas’s long silences while she lay in bed, unable to speak, not being required to speak. The quiet that surrounded the old woman was a filled and comforting one which Gustie craved, even though she lived alone, in silence much of the time.
They finished their supper and Gustie washed the dishes and the pot in the lake. Dorcas disappeared into the cottonwoods to the east.
Crow Kills was now blue-gray, flecked with silver sparkles—tiny waves, rivulets on the surface ever reaching for the shore. As the pale sky deepened in hue, the green of the farther shore darkened, dissolving the trees and bushes into silhouette. A deer stepped down to the waters’ edge to drink, then vanished like a ghost. A few birds warbled their evening songs—a warm-up for the night insects that would take up the concert with frogs when the darkness was complete.
Gustie needed these times when her mind emptied and she enlarged and entered into her surroundings. She felt herself blowing across the lake, felt the ripples in herself, reaching to herself the shore, and another part of herself, the birds singing, and again herself answering in the ratching sound of the crickets. She was the grass. She was the cottonwoods and the sound they made rustling softly in herself the breeze. This was losing the painful part of herself, her memories, her fears, her frustrations and limitations, and finding the best, that which existed in everything. This feeling lasted only a moment. Try as she might, she couldn’t recapture it or make it last. It came; it went; a visitation over which she had no control.
A lone water bird floated on the lake in the thickening dusk. Gustie rose, stepped down off the porch and walked up the path out of the trees to where she stood in the open. On three sides there was nothing but rolling land, and behind her, Crow Kills with its cottonwood sentinels. Gustie looked up at the night sky. The stars! She could almost hear them, singing a siren song, a multitude of beautiful melodies, far as infinity, close as her heart, seducing her. She knew she could never again live without the open sky, just like this, any time she needed it. Even when she could not get to Crow Kills, even in the dead of winter, she could walk a few steps out away from her own little house and get this sky, fill herself with it, feel herself soar up into it. She drank it like nectar, like black sparkling wine.
The scattered clouds hung low and heavy. The nearest cloud was dark at its belly where it appeared to touch the earth and lightened to piles of frothy white at its top.
The birds twittered in contentment, but perhaps it was her own contentment Gustie heard. No doubt birds had squabbles and problems of their own. A small golden brown animal appeared from around a cluster of purple blossoms and disappeared again.
The air was a delicious caress of warm and cool—the breath of the prairie poised between spring and summer. The sun drew out her scent and the wind tossed it back into her nostrils: her hair, fresh and rushy smelling from her morning bath in the lake, her skin smelling of the strong soap she always used.
Gustie noticed how much cleaner she felt out here in the middle-west than how she used to feel back east, and how much cleaner still she felt here at the lake where most of the living was done outside. Air was cleansing, like water.
The breeze fluttered around her bare legs, under her arms, through and beneath the loose fabric of her ankle-length shift. The rest of her clothing was drying on the branches of the willow. She
“Fishing good?” Gustie asked.
Dorcas nodded. “Yup. Pretty good.”
“That’s good.”
A bird called from the willow that bent over Crow Kills. Gustie swatted at a mosquito. She had gotten used to Dorcas’s long silences while she lay in bed, unable to speak, not being required to speak. The quiet that surrounded the old woman was a filled and comforting one which Gustie craved, even though she lived alone, in silence much of the time.
They finished their supper and Gustie washed the dishes and the pot in the lake. Dorcas disappeared into the cottonwoods to the east.
Crow Kills was now blue-gray, flecked with silver sparkles—tiny waves, rivulets on the surface ever reaching for the shore. As the pale sky deepened in hue, the green of the farther shore darkened, dissolving the trees and bushes into silhouette. A deer stepped down to the waters’ edge to drink, then vanished like a ghost. A few birds warbled their evening songs—a warm-up for the night insects that would take up the concert with frogs when the darkness was complete.
Gustie needed these times when her mind emptied and she enlarged and entered into her surroundings. She felt herself blowing across the lake, felt the ripples in herself, reaching to herself the shore, and another part of herself, the birds singing, and again herself answering in the ratching sound of the crickets. She was the grass. She was the cottonwoods and the sound they made rustling softly in herself the breeze. This was losing the painful part of herself, her memories, her fears, her frustrations and limitations, and finding the best, that which existed in everything. This feeling lasted only a moment. Try as she might, she couldn’t recapture it or make it last. It came; it went; a visitation over which she had no control.
A lone water bird floated on the lake in the thickening dusk. Gustie rose, stepped down off the porch and walked up the path out of the trees to where she stood in the open. On three sides there was nothing but rolling land, and behind her, Crow Kills with its cottonwood sentinels. Gustie looked up at the night sky. The stars! She could almost hear them, singing a siren song, a multitude of beautiful melodies, far as infinity, close as her heart, seducing her. She knew she could never again live without the open sky, just like this, any time she needed it. Even when she could not get to Crow Kills, even in the dead of winter, she could walk a few steps out away from her own little house and get this sky, fill herself with it, feel herself soar up into it. She drank it like nectar, like black sparkling wine.
The scattered clouds hung low and heavy. The nearest cloud was dark at its belly where it appeared to touch the earth and lightened to piles of frothy white at its top.
The birds twittered in contentment, but perhaps it was her own contentment Gustie heard. No doubt birds had squabbles and problems of their own. A small golden brown animal appeared from around a cluster of purple blossoms and disappeared again.
The air was a delicious caress of warm and cool—the breath of the prairie poised between spring and summer. The sun drew out her scent and the wind tossed it back into her nostrils: her hair, fresh and rushy smelling from her morning bath in the lake, her skin smelling of the strong soap she always used.
Gustie noticed how much cleaner she felt out here in the middle-west than how she used to feel back east, and how much cleaner still she felt here at the lake where most of the living was done outside. Air was cleansing, like water.
The breeze fluttered around her bare legs, under her arms, through and beneath the loose fabric of her ankle-length shift. The rest of her clothing was drying on the branches of the willow. She
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