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A recorded reading of “The Tall Witness”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The storm has a pocket for light and keeps forgetting to close it. We stand in borrowed clothes that rustle like reeds, a bride’s dress tidying the wind, a groom’s boot carrying half the hill. Between us and the lake, a giraffe— brown maps stitched to its ribs— steps to the knuckle of earth and lowers the day with its long, rain-weighted neck. We learn the sky is not above but near, warm breath on our wrists, a velvet question. Its lashes count the minutes for us. Somewhere behind the clouds, a choir of tin roofs rehearses rain; the horizon folds its metal ruler. We do not speak. The animal does not bow, yet everything inclines: grass, cuff, veil, even the thunder, pausing to listen. If vows must travel, let them travel by height. Let them move the way this creature moves— calm, slow-boned, already in tomorrow— as the first drop smudges the dust like ink and the tall witness gives the weather our names.
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