the voice

The thunder in this high country does not bring rain. In summer the far side of the flats rumbled every evening, and the yard stayed dry. Blondie pricks her ears at the first thunder of summer. Every year the dog learns again that a loud sound does not always turn into rain. I learned it once. After thunder passes, it goes cool for a moment below the back of my head. An old habit.

When supper is cleared, I pull the lamp close and sit at the table. The loudest thing in this house is a pencil. There was a time my voice was too big for the room.

Blondie and I hardly need words. I know where she is without calling, and she seems to know where I am. Before bed I draw water. When I hear the bucket touch stone, the day is done.

Last month a visitor came. Young, and good at waiting. The day he left, Blondie followed him as far as the creek. Since then I often look up at the two panels on the roof. There is no reason to turn them on yet.

I began this manuscript before the visitor came. Now the end is in sight. It is a story about a voice. I will start with how I got it, and stop at how I lost it. None of it is invented. Least of all the parts that read that way.

Thunder does not go in order. A pencil does. I start at the beginning.