Under a canopy of forest fresh from rain and mounds of chiseled earth beneath,
We take out a soggy brown bag of cut cucumbers adorned with single lines of fountain black ink
For a lazy game of cucumber charades
Under the toes of the sun, luxuriously digging and indulging in our emerald moss umbrella.
Birds begin to rehearse their songs as he begins his performance.
Dancing across the earthy stage, he flails his arms manically from his mouth and throws them back into the morning
While silence siphons out of my thoughts.
I don’t take a guess until I am pleased with my answer,
But birds chime in ceaselessly.
I don’t mind.
I get lost in their song
But just until I realize I’ve left this man miming
And that’s when I figure his act, and all the silence he emits, but not by choice.
He would never choose silence by choice.
“Words!” I say
And he smiles wearily with relief.
“Yes, ‘words’ that’s what it read.”
His soundful exhalation pierces the shade of a million leaves
And down falls the ghost of water that swims reluctantly off of my cheek.
A crunch from his cucumber piece and silence siphons into my thoughts.
Photographer: Steve Buissinne