Then Ben wailed again, hopeless and prolonged. It was nothing. Just sound. It might have been all time and injustice and sorrow become vocal for an instant by a conjunction of planets.
It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive. The fetus bailed out without a parachute. It landed in the sideline Astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.
She had wailed loudly enough to wake the dead and make them call the cops.
The instinctive act of humankind was to stand and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the trees on the left wailed or chaunted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir how hedges and other shapes to leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob and how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south, to be heard no more.
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith She reels not at the storm of warring words She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No' She sees the best that glimmers through the worst She feels the sun is hid for the night She spies the summer through the winter bud She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls She hears the lark within the songless egg She finds the fountain where they wailed 'Mirage'