| Water
gurgles along a mild creek, brushing against rocks, beckoning the thirsty
self. I hear no town sounds now; my heart rate has stabilized and I feel
safe here. I smell pollen first, then murky fingers, then fertility: crackling
crickets, swaying grasses, moving water. |
| I never
follow trails in the exterior worlds. Only mental labryniths, twisting
in my mind. I need to walk along Bronte¹s moors, sail Melville¹s
oceans, camp in Deliverance¹s hollows. I am an inside girl, dwelling
like Emily Dickinson inside my mind, haunting bookstores rather than campgrounds." |
| Miss Crenshaw closes the metal postal
box door. She wanders back to the sanctity of the local library, dreaming
of lyrical verse and immaculate sentences with each step on the pavement. |
