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October 2014, vol 10 no 3

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Melissa Watkins Starr

Around 2 P.M.

We are driving through Canaan Valley, West Virginia, in a heavy snowstorm when I see an owl perched in an oak. I tell my husband, who doesn't want to stop, why we must, and he does. I get out of the truck, pass through a gate, and move through knee-deep snow to get closer. When the owl swivels to look at me, I freeze. The only photos I get are of the owl's back as it flies away.

a rusty nail
on the gatepost
residue of dreams