"Bruce Holland Rogers - What the Wind Carries" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Bruce Holland)

of the canyon. He heard the rush of the black creek, a counterpoint to the rushing wind in the pine trees.
A paved trail ran alongside the creek, and he saw her, in the last light of the city, round a distant bend.
Still he ran, even when he entered the deepest shadows and only stars lit the canyon walls and he couldn't
see where his feet were landing. He stumbled, but kept his feet beneath him. The black air roared around
him. Threads of wind whipped his face and hands, stung his eyes, and he realized that it was her hair
again, lashing him more fiercely now.
Hair filled his mouth. He struggled to breathe. His feet still struck the ground, still kept him moving, but
he was lost, blind, exhausted.
He didn't know he had fallen until he felt the sudden jolt of stones against his hands, against his body.
The shock along his spine told him he had hit his head. He raised his hand to feel his forehead. Wet.
Sticky. There was a spot that throbbed when he touched it gingerly. He heard the crash of a windfallen
tree.
The canyon had opened up, and the white water in the creek was gray with moonlight. He blinked the
grit out of his eyes, then stood carefully. His knees were weak, quaking, unreliable.
She was gone.
And she was everywhere.
She filled the canyon, yes. But he could feel the rest of her, feel her filling the valley, too, tossing power
lines and bringing down fences all over Boulder. She made the stars burn bright and clear. She made the
air smell of pine trees and black soil.
She made the tears on his cheeks sting all the more and he said, "Come to me!" He promised, "I'll love
you forever!"
As if she had been there all along, she was standing next to him. He reached out to touch her, and she
didn't move away. Her skin was cold, and so were her eyes.
"I'll love you forever," he said, and leaned to kiss her. Her mouth was dry, but soft. She kissed him
back. She closed her arms around him and pulled him close. She filled his ears, filled his mouth. It made
him drunk, the taste of wind in his mouth. His clothes shredded and blew away. His fingers searched the
surface of her, and her hair enveloped him, her legs folded around him. Black air rushed over every part
of his body. He entered her, was inside of her and more than inside of her, was enveloped by her,
rocking with her somewhere that was and was not the canyon, riding with her over the city, carrying
debris-- fragments of his clothes, newspapers, leaves, loose shingles. He spun high with her, wove
himself in and out of her high over the plains. She was his one great, his one true love, and it was she and
only she that he thought of when he emptied himself into her, and emptied himself, and emptied himself
like a pitcher that pours and keeps pouring, a pitcher that is overwhelmed and still pours and pours and
drips and drips and finally is dry, tumbling high in the air, carried on the wind.
Over the wheat fields, she carried him. Higher. Higher still. They flew all night over the range land to
the east where the wind blows wider and wider and at last gentles, at last grows still, and the debris falls
into ravines, into expanses of yucca and sage where the odd paper bag, this or that scrap of newspaper,
the papery skin stretched tight over bone and the yellow teeth in black gums will lie bleaching in the sun.
Published by Alexandria Digital Literature. ( http://www.alexlit.com/ )

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