To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Wendy Carlisle's previous piece To Wendy Carlisle's next piece
Speaking in Tongues On the day it finally snowed, we drove home with the dog licking the window in long, loud slurps as if a spring had welled up in the glass as if the pane had become a cistern. twenty degree weather and his tongue didnít stick, described steamy trails on the window- pane as we chided him, No, bad boy! What did we miss? Some condensation grander than breath? There was nothing beyond the farm fences that afternoon, beyond the fat snow sliding by the car, the fog and winter pasture, the dog's blurry reflection in the frozen glass.
To the top of this page