Bear Path Standing
The wind tunnel sucks in fresh meat bleeding, sliced by mad machetes, shot by the insane trigger finger of urban war, or leather lungs gasping through a hole in the ozone, and this because we live out of balance. When a drill press operator loses his index finger in the factory of night, when a baby snaps her tiny spinal cord because General Motors forgot, then they come to us, arriving through the ambulance entrance, the wind tunnel, screaming in agony - if it's not too late - because nature, the process, the structure of things is at best unknown, at worst ignored.
Parkie, Tanker, Tiger of Tobruk
And it was at the end of some trying times for him when I realized, one afternoon as we sat looking over the sun looking over Lily Pond, a redness on the pondís face as bright as an ache, the pond face we had skated on for almost twenty years, where we had whipped the long hand-held whip line of us and our friends screaming and wind-blown toward the frosted shore on countless coffee and cider evenings, that he had come home to die.