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January 2014, vol 9, no 4

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Francis Masat

After the Storm


It is 3 AM and I had fallen asleep again listing to the rhythm of her monitor. I leave, arrive at her home, and the porch swing is so inviting that I fall asleep in the smell of rain. My cell phone rings and I awaken to an immense cloud beginning to clear over the sunrise.

At City Cemetery, the cicadas begin before we do - appropriate, and not unpleasant. In the afternoon heat, a buzzard circles lower, ever lower and settles in a cedar. High above the service, a hawk glides over, silhouetting against stark white contrails. A quiet universal-like peacefulness pervades as we lower Mom next to Dad on his birthday.

aboard the bus ─
my new shoes still coated
with country dust




crane