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April 2017, vol 13 no 1

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Kathryn J. Stevens

Epitaph


All summer you sat beside me watching geese swim through translucent ripples. You weren’t interested in the babies paddling behind imperious mothers, or in the half-grown goslings skimming the surface in pursuit of each other. For long minutes, you studied a gander intently fishing among apple-green lily pads. Then without a word, you got up and drifted away.

my reflection
in the lake
reflecting

Now the air has lost it’s luster. The hills have settled more surely into themselves. The geese are gone.

together
alone
falling leaves


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