Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 20

On Clay Ridge a crescent moon

balanced itself, soon became

an open parenthesis

no father, uncle could close

as we hunched on farmhouse steps,

wore Sunday clothes days early,

what conversation the rasp

of matches. Small blades of flame

rose to faces no tears marked

as I heard silence widen

like fish swirls on a calm pond,