Parable
Michael Bazzett
Maybe it's like this: you walk down a hill at dusk and see a dark sack at wood's edge packed heavy and settled on its single haunch so dark it looks damp— acorns, grain, sand, stone? You wonder at the forgetful collector approaching with your long strides intent on peering inside when it lifts startled into the tossing green boughs and you understand it was a bear, solid and quickly gone: isn't it true you have looked for years at some words and also thought they were heavy?