At least that many buffet here, and I erect as the monument despite my hope to be flattened. If only the winds could take the horse-sobs that heave from me, wind-whipped without the grace of speech; if only these small creatures with amused, skeptical eyes could offer me their chittering, their business of fetching and nesting in the fields. One day I fear the barometer's shift will shatter the surface of the vessel, jarring me into bloody words—catastrophe will fill the strophe then— Unless, winds, you take my speech and rend it into untranslatable rainy hootings.
From Swan Electric by April Bernard. Copyright © 2002 by April Bernard. Reprinted by permission of W. W. Norton & Company. All rights reserved.