Talking

...and let our minds
rattle our tongues.
—Mary Oliver

I love to copy down lines from a book. Often the line alone speaks to me—out of its context. The line acts as a prompt, it instigates, incites, sets in motion a scenario, a fictive world.

What a perfect verb—rattle. This is not a clatter, a hum or a tick, nor is it a rumble. I think of the rattle at the end of a rattlesnake's tail—those loose segments that quiver and resonate.

Thoughts and figments of conversations, Bach or bluegrass in the background, a half read book, the newspaper headlines, a friend asking for prayers, melting snow, the sound of walking up and down the stairs, a telephone call, a text, the way the barista said enjoy your latte, the homeless man walking past a line of cars with drivers waiting for the red light to turn green, or how the boy with pants hanging too far down rides his scooter on a railing, or how the old woman who sits in the pew behind you looks so fragile, or how the book you're reading speaks to you, or remembering—or just recalling yesterday or today's sun or the first crocus pushing through the snow.

Loose segments " rattle our tongues" — pushing past silence.