Bethany Rowland, The Long View, 2019 (Artist Website)
Acrylic on Clayboard, 30 x 30”
— for Andrea
A cold wind blew in gusts that caught
the root-hold of the firs. Clouds fled across the sky
and I felt empty, free of myself, just walking.
The way the trees leaned and circled, tossing
their long branches like a woman whose had
enough might toss away something she loves.
Or a horse might toss its head,
meaning I am dangerous.
A few doors down men were putting up
a wall with their nail guns and saws.
Ladders, bags of sand all over the yard.
How satisfying that must feel, to stand back
at the end of the day and admire a house
you’ve made in the company of others.
To be of practical use, like a frying pan.
Don’t fall off your ladders, I shouted,
each one some mother’s child. I’m not
a mother myself, but I had a wish
to remind them. I was afraid they’d fall off
in a blast of cold wind. And they waved at me,
maybe not really hearing my words.
My friend was out in her yard—
she gathered her cat in her arms and
stood with me. The wind blew round us, pushing us
this way and that. She tucked her cat
inside her sweater.
I feel a deep anger about something I can’t
quite exactly pin down, she said.
I know, I said.
A big wet cloud falling over me.
Yes, I said. I pulled my hat tighter
down over my ears.
I grow weary of my mind’s limitations,
my indecision, she said. The feeling that
everything is slowing down.
How much it hurts. Aging, death, the whole thing.
I get that, I said.
I can’t fight against it any longer, she said.
No, I said, won’t do you much good.
Still, she said, I treasure each
chance we have to talk like this.
That matters, doesn’t it.
The wind took up her voice then, raked it
over the backbones of the firs,
carried it far off into another country.