Hiatus

A poem.

Quiet as August, I lounge –
sun, dock, stream, the breathing
skies conspire to fill, to lull.
Pollen swirls, reeds bump, click.
Tiny fish bring hollow mouths up
bubble the surface, inspect dust.
Thin green weeds tell the current
– silent, they quiver, bend, weave.
All the canoes are napping, camps
abandoned, stars invisible gleaming
when a black fisher cat slinks in
ploshing, then pausing, alert.
Mary Buchinger

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...