Sounds of Eveline in the kitchen, quiet for once,
washing things and moving cups, her body moving in
the enclosed space, tap of her feet, Sami the dog in his curly coat,
splaying his body on cool tiles but not sleeping, afraid
of missing one single thing that happens on a hot 
afternoon in France. Insects in the trees weaving nets of sound
over the day, Eveline saying Shit! because now
Sami has disappeared, the brass gong gleaming
like another sun, the one that is sliding with infinite slowness
down the sky until it disappears behind the gray limestone bluffs
streaked and blotched with red and yellow ochre, plants 
growing from the rockface like a hanging garden, crows calling
somewhere, and the river that I cannot see or smell or hear
but that I know is gliding past me in its wide, deep bed,
carrying particles of the fields and mountains
to the glittering sea.

Bio: Carolyn Miller