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  • Writer's pictureRyan Nowlin

Part of Section 8 of Time with the Season

8

In old Westerns when you saw a train at nine a.m.

it was still leaving at noon, growing fainter

as the day wore on as if it had been etched in

with a stencil, with slanting pencils of

sunlight. Van Gogh’s leaky jar placed in a marsh,

its cross-hatched reflection on the still surface

of the water. Such are the breakages in Japanese

beneath the pencil marks of an exercise book.

It doesn’t look like that way anymore, but it

still feels the same. Sun dried flies line

the window sill. A measure of bewilderment

that was reading the novel. Mr. Shawn wrote,

“roach appears on page three and has not moved

in three pages.” There were certain dry periods

one couldn’t be expected to re-live. When the spell

was broken you felt the link snap inside you.

As per usual, the story ended with the bad guys

getting rounded up and the neighbors moving

to new locations before the paint was dried on

the picket fence. Its none of my buisness,

but it is funny that you never got anywhere

when you were young etc, etc...

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