This Valley As My Lover

We embraced in the summer night

Someone told me that I have a Voice.  And I hear her, awakening now, becoming aware of herself.  Unfolding her scaly wings, preparing for flight.  She is wild, untamable, and she horrifies me.  I try to censor her, muzzle her, but she must be let free.

 

I scramble to pull out my laptop in time, as she comes and goes.  I must faithfully present her before she disappears.

 

This Voice.  She wants to tell you how I am laying on this soft hammock, with wet feet at midnight.  The spoon slides over my lips, but the sugar does not satisfy.  Cold, slippery, empty.  The valley is still, hushed.  Burnt ochre rusty clouds hover, pinpricks of these unnatural lights are scattered on the foothills.  There are no houses, trees, streets, it is all gone now.  Just the darkness and the lights.  Dripping from a rain pipe, the shifting of a flag.  A soft sprinkling of rain, a lone car revving its engine in the valley.  Intensify.  More water.  The hammock is outlined by the haze.

 

And the Voice is restless.  Speak out, feel the ridge of lights arcing like a serpent, low in the sky.  More dripping, more sprinkling, a banging of rusty potted plants, the muffled percussion of a train passing in the valley.  Rain, rain hard.  Wash everything away.  I beg you.  Black garden lights silhouette against the burnt sky, an ocean of brown swirls, like chemicals in a storm drain. 

 

A flicker from the corner of my eye, is it, yes it is!  Lightning on the horizon, the rain picks up, the gods have answered me.  An omen.  The hammock smells of rot, but I don’t mind, as I lay my head down and listen as the rains come.  A softness.  The sky is marbled now, chalk and cream, unveiling its hidden beauty to me.  Undressing.  Smell the dampness and the trees. 

 

And the train!  Rhythmic, passing the rails, three in a row, sounding the horn!  Stronger.  The flag is hovering now.  The valley is awake and vibrating.  Those sleeping are missing this crescendo.  Cars swishing towards me, up the hill, more pattering, add the train, the tapping of the water can!  I am not alone! 

            

After the orgasm, the rains lessen.  Drips are uncertain.  Flag lies still.  Train is gone, and cars too.  Laying back in the hammock, I feel the valley reaching out to me.  As a lover would, after release.  Talk with me, comfort me.  It is over.  I am naked to you now, but not afraid. 

 

And I wonder with how many others the valley has shared itself in this way.  All the nights of passionate rains, wind, snows, humid and sultry summer nights.  Who else have you touched, caressed?  But I cannot be jealous of you, for you are wild and free.  Untamable?

 

The beast understands, and is content.  I thank her and she retreats.  Finished translating, once again.

 

Reviews

[[corey]]

The imagery in this is, like the other pieces of yours I've managed to read thus far, just outstanding. I like how you presented your inner creative side as a separate entity within yourself. It's actually quite right. I know I can never really explain what happens when I get the urge to write something, and most times it comes at the most inopportune moments; you put a nice handle on it. That "inner eye" that can see the world in ways our normal minds cannot.

It's like standing on your head. You get a new perspective of everything around you, despite the fact you know it's still the same, basic stuff.

And besides, who in their right mind doesn't like a good rain?