He thought about the handsome border guard. What was he doing now? Bored, looking at his watch, not even halfway through his shift? Standing, but not like the stolid donkey, animated, engaged, chatting, human, and not walking, like Franco. Franco could not stop walking. He actually tried to stop and he couldn’t, like the woman and reading. His legs were in automatic, as was his breathing, and his heartbeat.
Fluttering up above . . . flutter fall, flutter fall, flutter fall . . . Franco looked at his hand . . . flutter fall, flutter fall . . . the wind was inside him now . . . flutter fall . . . moisture from the leaves . . . flutter fall . . . bark smooth and peeling . . . flutter . . .
Franco was still now. He had stopped walking, and he stood stolid like the donkey staring, staring, staring . . .
He looked at the tree. Smooth bark appealing, wrinkle where the limb joined the tree . . . hello, friend, Franco said, seeing the tree for the first time since he left the house, horrified by the lives of the plants he left behind there, poor captives, the border guard, the woman who worked in the propane store . . . no, here now, with this tree . . . this tree . . . how did he find it out of these thousands and millions all around him . . . what could he possibly say to those he left behind in the house . . .
The fish weeps in the dry riverbed. Too late he is sorry he flopped across the shallows. Now he wants to go back, and warn all the other fishes.
Franco now had his hand on the tree and could feel its smooth cool bark. It felt better, his hot palm cooled by the smooth cool bark, drinking in the tree, drinking in its wetness and moisture, its cellular coolness and regularity soothing his complicated innards, the inside of the fig, crimson and scarlet, seminal in its unctuous and seeded interior, greeny white on the outside like the tree was yellow greeny white on its inside . . . greeny white tree and moisture . . . here, this tree . . .
Franco knew he was in a trance and did not want to leave it. But he knew that knowing that he was in a trance was a sign that he was coming out of it, just as stopping and staring was a sure sign that he was entering it. Is this what the donkey was feeling? The revelation generated enormous respect in Franco fro the donkey, but left his warmth for the goat in place. The town, the fetid town, in the base of the valley, was finally behind him, fetid and tiny and far, far away.
The tree, so different from the fig tree, was another heartbreak, as he felt his body move away, up the grade, oblique but now brighter with sunlight filtering through the crowns of the trees, standing, standing, standing, like the donkey, but so much more, both in number and in . . . expertise? Trees were excellent at standing. Franco felt the same warmth for the donkey that he had felt for the goat. The donkey was a good stander too, a donkey stander.
Fluttering up above . . . flutter fall, flutter fall, flutter fall . . . Franco looked at his hand . . . flutter fall, flutter fall . . . the wind was inside him now . . . flutter fall . . . moisture from the leaves . . . flutter fall . . . bark smooth and peeling . . . flutter . . .
Franco was still now. He had stopped walking, and he stood stolid like the donkey staring, staring, staring . . .
He looked at the tree. Smooth bark appealing, wrinkle where the limb joined the tree . . . hello, friend, Franco said, seeing the tree for the first time since he left the house, horrified by the lives of the plants he left behind there, poor captives, the border guard, the woman who worked in the propane store . . . no, here now, with this tree . . . this tree . . . how did he find it out of these thousands and millions all around him . . . what could he possibly say to those he left behind in the house . . .
The fish weeps in the dry riverbed. Too late he is sorry he flopped across the shallows. Now he wants to go back, and warn all the other fishes.
Franco now had his hand on the tree and could feel its smooth cool bark. It felt better, his hot palm cooled by the smooth cool bark, drinking in the tree, drinking in its wetness and moisture, its cellular coolness and regularity soothing his complicated innards, the inside of the fig, crimson and scarlet, seminal in its unctuous and seeded interior, greeny white on the outside like the tree was yellow greeny white on its inside . . . greeny white tree and moisture . . . here, this tree . . .
Franco knew he was in a trance and did not want to leave it. But he knew that knowing that he was in a trance was a sign that he was coming out of it, just as stopping and staring was a sure sign that he was entering it. Is this what the donkey was feeling? The revelation generated enormous respect in Franco fro the donkey, but left his warmth for the goat in place. The town, the fetid town, in the base of the valley, was finally behind him, fetid and tiny and far, far away.
The tree, so different from the fig tree, was another heartbreak, as he felt his body move away, up the grade, oblique but now brighter with sunlight filtering through the crowns of the trees, standing, standing, standing, like the donkey, but so much more, both in number and in . . . expertise? Trees were excellent at standing. Franco felt the same warmth for the donkey that he had felt for the goat. The donkey was a good stander too, a donkey stander.
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