I heard a rabbit die in the thick of our wet woods once. Tried to imagine the pores of the hoarding undergrowth fill up with Red 5 as far as the eyes could see; such a wicked meal.
But I couldn’t quit looking at the leaves. Like I had dreamt it up; that scream. Even with the most lucid imaginings I don’t believe our kind can properly capture something so visceral. Like the powering velocity of a whip crack; we hear it in our minds but do not feel the wind at our ear.
For so long I sat waiting in the belly of the path, too full of fright and curiosity to move, while the trees with their gentle posturing, hung loose above us.
Blackness on the Vine
Blackness On the Vine is a performance piece written for and inspired by the performance …