Saturday, April 2, 2011


A slab of slate cleft from the cliff's face fell and grabbed his arm.
His beard itches, sweat stings his eyes with salt, and sandy air dries his throat.
Traffic to the trapped arm slows. It tingles as the supply of blood stops.
With a terrific thrashing he attempts to wrench his elbow out from under the rock.
His planned trip's travel has been road blocked.
With what little strands of moisture his saliva glands spare he prepares to wet his throat and call for help.
He swallows.
He yells and the voice echoes, taking on the tone of stone, then he wallows in this failure.
Wind blows pebbles loose off the horizontal menhir.
He imagines his fingers aren't trapped as they were and tugs on his arm.
Bare skin tears, wears from scraping, bleeds, splats the tan humanweight with thumbs-width circles of red, paling in the sun.
He rests.
He unzips his jacket, unclothing as much as possible.
He tests for feeling and finds he can't sense the invisible hand he hopes is underneath the landslide.
Something hopping amongst the poppies perks his ears.
Someone else!
Hurting his thirsty throat, he roars,
"over here!" and
"I'm stuck!"
He's caught up in hollering. It takes awhile for him to calm down, his smile to fade, and the indifference of the desert's sounds to soothe him.

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