There they go again. A few minutes of quiet suggested that they had kissed and made up. Cooling off in the river. But no, up on the rocky bank the voices rise, back and forth, then clashing in a raucous assault to the recently peaceful spring afternoon. Questions, shouts, accusations, declarations of right and wrong, all carried by the wind to my porch rocking chair. I continue to rock and read, willing them into droning bees or elevator music played when put on hold or whirring plane engines.
The wind shifts, and the young man and woman no longer exist, their bickering blown away with as little consequence as their tiff. Purple martins warble and swoop.
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