Where You Were Headed
A poem.
Where You Were Headed
Skip to next paragraphSubscribe Today to the Monitor
It didn't matter. It was how the pileated woodpecker
squatted to her belly
and draped and dipped her neck,
one side,
then the other,
to her chest
in a rivulet of melted snow.
It was how the wind
rubbed across the pines
and the clear melt
washed down every road rut
all that afternoon.
– Franco Pagnucci








These comments are not screened before publication. Constructive debate about the above story is welcome, but personal attacks are not. Please do not post comments that are commercial in nature or that violate any copyright[s]. Comments that we regard as obscene, defamatory, or intended to incite violence will be removed. If you find a comment offensive, you may flag it.