Linda Jeannette Ward

Dog Days

Old pines, their trunks molded into contorted shapes by years of battering by hurricanes, surround this old house now converted into a mental health clinic that serves a community where transients mingle with farmers, watermen and roadside entrepreneurs peddling everything from peaches to velveteen portraits of Jesus. From my upstairs office window I’m distracted by a bluebird hawking insects, his neat swoops flashing a colorful contrast to the glossy russet plumage of the neighbor’s rooster who has wandered into our backyard again, alternately crowing and pecking at bits of cracked corn our secretary has scattered beneath the bird feeders. “Fuck you, you’re supposed to help . . .” a shrill, razor-sharp voice from the therapist’s office downstairs draws me to the opposite window above the slam and shudder of the front door . . .

heat waves—
the hitchhiker shifts her child
to the other hip