quenched ovenbird I watch him trying to make a bowl from red cotton cord. He’s clumsy and tentative and the rope keeps uncoiling. He attempts to tie it together with garden twine, and his fingers become raw from handling the rough jute. The jumble of red rope sits in his lap, making it appear that his own insides have spilled out in a bloody mess. I’m standing over him, staring, not saying a word. Suddenly he looks up at me. “I want to bring water to my wife,” he says. “But a rope bowl won’t hold water,” I reply. “It won’t hold water but it might hold words,” he says. “You’ll need to make the weave tighter,” I tell him because I know that words are slippery and resistant to being gathered. “How long have you been doing this?” I ask him. “Oh, a while,” he says. “There aren’t many hobbies for men over six feet tall.” I nod, though I’m unsure what his height has to do with the availability of hobbies. When he finishes, his vessel looks more like a tall drinking glass than a bowl but I don’t mention it. I hope he’ll scoop as many words as he needs from the nearby river. It may be futile but I like that he’s willing to try. So many sit down at a wordless table. If he goes home empty handed the woman he loves will see the woven bowl and know that he wanted to gather everything in his heart and let her drink. 251127 what's it to you? who go blather from