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The Sound of It, Spring


April, late enough there’s forsythia everywhere—how could I forget it, it’s so shocking, toothy and gold. I have to remind myself it’s beautiful. The tulip trees, like I said, blossoms big as teacups. What strange names we come into the world with, and for. Nameless—to be named on the earth, as one of the earth’s things, a thing alongside all else—. For instance the narcissus, now closing primly, drawn purse strings. And the birds, oh the birds are everywhere these days. Strange, the notion of migration, the question always a matter of return, dashed lines of the aerial view. Does sky clatter; is it silent? And dying? That must happen every so often. How many travel together, do they sleep in trees, no time to construct an overnight nest? Do our birds prefer particulars, a blue height, length of limb, do they know? I can’t help but ask them: Send news.


Elizabeth Gramm

Boston Review

January / February 2012


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