might sound, tapping a metal bucket,
for all the lack of sun this morning,
the dim gray light, no heavier than that.
As though God’s not into dramatics today.
No fire and brimstone.
No rending of earth as when Jesus died.
No storm lashing Adam and Eve out of Eden.
No cataclysmic meteor striking the Yucatan
to extinguish the dinosaurs.
No glacial sheet of ice overwhelming Europe
to drive the Neanderthals south.
A day of forgiveness perhaps,
or an intermission.
Joseph Hardy is one of a handful of writers that live in Nashville, Tennessee, that does not play a musical instrument; although a friend once asked him to bring his harmonica on a camping trip so they could throw it in the fire. His wife says he cannot leave a room without finding out something about everyone in it, and telling her their stories later.