Andrew Nance

The Church
Without Bells

First the light receded into yellow. Someone was opening the wine all night. When he appeared it was to say the war was over. But wars followed him from each metropolis to that diary farm he was from. That’s what he had told me: a diary farm. At some point I had decided that I would take it seriously: watching two friends make love. Down in the valley, night buried the open door of an unlit church. Street lamps flicked on. He told us that soon birds would fly by the flock into that church and die. He said it made sense as he leaned into the wind that shot up from below.