它的声音--安妮.赖特骚特

只有一架钢琴简单明了地弹着，即使不长，
然而我突然就想到了猫尾草田野
我和一头奶牛如何越过栅栏相互打量着
而汽车在我身后嘀嗒地冷却。
此时我转身环顾，令我惊奇的是
街区的高草没有抽芽，我已经走了这么长时间。
在某些故事中时间以扭曲的方式经过，
虽然奶牛和我相对年轻
当我们开始观察的时候，我们都看见
我走时比较年轻一点儿的。这只奶牛咽下
一顿安稳的好饭，为谷仓装满牛奶。
我什么也不相信地驱车而去
我之前一直都那么的确定的，靠到栅栏上
怀里满抱着尖木片。没有音乐--
我甚至都没有哼唱--但就是刚才
钢琴演奏出精准的驱动声
Just a piano playing plainly, not even for long,
and yet I suddenly think of fields of timothy
and how a cow and I once studied each other over a fence
while the car ticked and cooled behind me.
When I turned around I was surprised that it had not
sprouted tall grass from its hood, I had been gone
so long. Time passes in crooked ways in some tales,
and though the cow and I were relatively young
when we started our watching, we looked
a bit younger when I left. The cow had downed a good
steady meal and was full of milk for the barn.
I drove away convinced of nothing I had been
so sure of before, with arms full of splinters
from leaning on the fence. There was no music—
I was not even humming—but just now the piano
played the exact sound of that drive.
“The Sound of It” by Annie Lighthart from Iron String. © Airlie Press, 2013