Summer 2004
	Jennifer Michael Hecht
	The Sound of Those Drums
	A man, walking alone in the wild woods at twilight begins to hear a rhythmic pounding, resounding through the space between massive trunks of trees. I don’t like
	the sound of those drums, he says, frightened, aloud. There’s a pause, then a woman yells back He’s not our regular drummer. Come out from in there. Walk out from the darkness
	between the evergreen and deciduous and say it is ridiculous, this hiding in my song. What a bunch of brave brutes we are; how talented it is to fearfully play in our combo
	even when we may be mistook for threat of war, or, worse, critiqued for our interpretation of the score. How we arrive with our casserole dishes extended, our chocolate hearts
	on a platter of fingers, lips pursing in the plump of a kiss, offered and offering! He takes her in his arms, whispers that he is always scared, she says she’s sensitive to negative critique.
	He takes her in his arms, whispers, I don’t like the sound of those drums, she says, He’s not our usual drummer. Through it all a sweet groaning, intoning. The more they understand of these
	translations, the more they lose interest in this plane of existence. Instead, it is still wintertime. People have been talking a lot about snow. You are letting go of even letting go. You are
	listening and it is sometimes very interesting. You keep your eyes at a far-away glaze, You feel the weight of your hands. The trees shimmer in a kind of tinseled, winter gauze. Things
	have a salt haze. Life is a plump plum today, a thump on your skin, an unknown drum, humming.