Linda Simoni-Wastila When a Bowl Hits a Tree You would think when a bowl hits a tree the sound would be fierce, a loud clatter as stoneware explodes on birch bark dispersing shards in daffodils and grape muscari, but the noise is gentle, a thudding clink like empty bourbon bottles rattling hollow in Monday morning trash; yet this contusion of wood upon ceramic, a sound unto itself, is never forgotten. Perhaps it was the arc, how the bowl hurled across the yard, arugula and spinach spinning slow motion; perhaps it was velocity, anger fueled heft behind the hand; or perhaps it was the meager mass that rendered such feeble protest; or maybe it was the years of other things broken at louder, higher pitch which has inured us from giving any more damns.

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