Mounds

Peering through the shattered glass I saw what I first took for great mounds of mud, with little tufts of grass growing from each one. I was grossly mistaken. They were mounds, yes—not of mud, but of men! Heavy round men, all gathered into rows, staring thoughtfully toward the front of the crowded little church. I imagined that somewhere underneath them might be long pews, but they had so overgrown as to swallow up any such seating with their bulbous bodies. They were lumpy. Their skin was pale and spotted, almost yellow in the dim interior light, resembling green potatoes, not quite ripe for eating. Their attention was fixed on a comically thin man giving a lecture from the front. He paced back and forth in a sharp navy suit, touching his deeply furrowed brow, then gesturing sharply with pale hands. He was by now three illustrations deep into a rather philosophical topic, something about men and the deceitfulness of their hearts. He seemed sincere enough, and he articulated himself well, clearly an educated man. Several of the round heads were nodding attentively, evidently connecting with this latest point. As for me, I did not listen for more. I had little interest in making the company of such people, fearful that I should soon fall among their rolling ranks.