"Black walnuts hitting a barn roofFairly rapped the morning. Massachusetts,Autumn. Orioles and pumpkins.And the crack of those round shellsLike a hardwood mallet hammering a wedgeInto the moment, splitting it ever open Up ahead, letting it travel with us,Us into it, articulatedOngoing: whatever was to happen nextAnticipated as half-consciouslyAs the smack of the next mailed walnutOn the roof, but at exactly what Interval none of us could tell."
"And the crack of those round shellsLike a hardwood mallet hammering a wedgeInto the moment, splitting it ever open Up ahead, letting it travel with us,Us into it, articulated"
Black walnuts strike a barn roof in a Massachusetts autumn, their impacts cutting through the morning alongside orioles and pumpkins. The cracking of the round shells is likened to a hardwood mallet hammering a wedge, forcing a sudden split that opens the moment. That opening carries people forward, folding them into the articulated, ongoing experience. Expectation gathers about what will happen next, felt half-consciously as one waits for the smack of another mailed walnut on the roof. The precise timing of the next impact remains unpredictable, heightening attention and suspense.
Read at The New Yorker
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