It’s late, you know, and I can’t tell any more what they think. The readers.
Because I’ve been staring all night at the horror-pitch of the tornado’s sweep.
All that is left implying what is gone.
I look, tweak, present the flesh of the page and the raw of it to the readers with their breakfast.
Here is your news. A terrible thing has happened.
The truth of it is:
the twisted metal in the tree and the child in the woman’s arms – they were all I could see all night. The weight of that big child and the simple pleasure: this one is alive.
Wind bent the metal around the giant branches of the only tree standing — the way an artist would — duplicating the massive curve of the trunk; the tree’s inertia meeting and matching the wind’s blind force.
I love the tree for this defiance.
The truth of it is: we never know the whole story; we should always try.
And, I am sorry – for wanting them to see it all,
because I truly think that if we are human, we must at least witness this life.