Writing

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Indicative

Noise.

More specifically, a brass band with precautions and yet dancing in the street.

Dry beans from the shelf turn to twining leaves and scarlet blossoms in a cup of dirt.

The women who would legislate guns into shining heaps of dust. Pistils.

Push of protest and fall of anchored objects. The masked man signing executive orders.

The signing at his news briefings so more people understand.

The outraged young people still protecting us. Parents pulling wagons with their dazed or joyful or sleeping children inside.

Maybe this time I said, above her bandanna her eyebrows lifted, shrugging but not saying no.

On the green endpaper Tillie Olsen wrote “these things shall be” and signed her name in tiny script.

The ardor of weeds and more of them edible than most of us thought.

Those times the children pick up a pencil when the TV remote is equally close.

In a zoom dance class a plane buzzed over and people in three cities and two continents looked up. As if the sky were one sky.

Across a cracked blacktop amble so many elk. A grove of antlers dipping. They stall the gas-choked cars. People step out holding phone screens up. In the middle of a Wednesday, the highway narrows like a stream.

That first there will be sleeping then waking some screaming then rolling over maybe scooting the one-legged crawl the little rolls at the wrist and ankles the stand the chortling.

The woman who brings kimbop and Spanish wine to the backyard. The joy of her opinions, harsh coffee.

The number of people who focused on healing me, said a woman who recovered, how I can pass that on?