Paul Munden
Bellbird Hill
Sheets of rain. Invisible bends. Windscreen wipers thump with your heart. Somewhere soon, the turning to the farm . . . . A thick bolt of lightning unzips the sky and there—the broken white line of the road between your shoulder blades. You listen to bird calls as you wait for the first tremor. Your cotton dress clings to your thighs. Tarmac ripples. Who was it that told on you?