Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 12

The paths between pasture, barn

were no straight lines but slow curves

around a hill that centered

thirty acres. To a child

those narrow levels seemed like

belts worn on the hill’s bulged waist,

if climbed straight up, tall steps for

stone Aztec ruins—though razed

each time dawnlight peaked landrise,

belts and steps became sudden

contrails from planets circling

the sun’s blaze, planets disguised

with cow hide, the furrowed skin

of an old woman’s visage.