PAUL CHRISTENSEN

My village lies there in all its stony composure under the first thunderstorm of fall. It meant cold weather was coming, creeping in like a procession of ghosts under the rumbling sky. They've been here before, setting up their spider-web houses and devouring the crumbs of summer twilight as if it were manna. We lit a fire and sat admiring the flickers curling up like silky marigolds. The cold receded into the dark corners and we were left staring at the hearth without talkin

It's chilly now. A big rain fell morosely out of the wrinkles of darkness. The streets sobbed with relief, and the footsteps so often clicking and sighing in the street below suddenly vanished. We were alone with the sky at that moment. It was hanging down within reach, and our windows were growing cataracts that made the streetlight fan out like shattered glass. Our village house is not exactly watertight; the ceiling has multiple rusty looking stains around the seams of the

The sky is overcast this mid-day. It reminds me of the times when my father came into my bedroom and tossed the covers off, saying "You'll be late." Then I would drag the sheet back over me and stare at the gauzy world through its wrinkles and vagueness. How lovely, I would think, to be idle and in suspense of the next moment. Then a voice would boom from below and warn me, "I mean it." I never found out what that really meant, since he was loath to discipline any of his thre