But LPD’s mind
lay in the clouds. Storms come from the west. Thunderheads hide in the
mountains. They live in the canyons, deep in caves, until cold winds make them
angry. Then they grow, and take their revenge on the prairies. In their
towering, boiling, anguish, their reds and orange reflections, they are
emotions come into corporeal life. Their visage is anger; their lightning is
excitement; their rain—tears; their stillness, yellow light, soft singing of
tiny frogs, are all a kind of renewal. This rain is a persistent one. The wet
raccoon becomes surly, with bared fangs, quick to bite and shake its fur,
nervous as the tale goes on, almost as if he remembers only too well the dirt,
heavy bones, the ancient dried skin, stringy black and brittle hair, the broken
pots, baskets, all out of the grave. The grave.
He scratches and yowls. From the woods north of campus comes the scream of a
rabbit whose back is cut in two by a weasel’s stiletto teeth. Finally, at five
in the morning, comes the calling of toads. With this last, Dinkle stops.
“The storm
always brings them back together,” he says.
(DINKLE: A SPIRITUAL BIOGRAPHY is a ghost story for our times; it's available on smashwords, kindle, and nook.)
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