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March 2009, vol 5 no 1
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Cherie Hunter Day SurgeA certain slant of light is all it takes for it to be late summer again. I'm on a friend's back porch in Maine at dinnertime. I don't remember the menu but I can see the arborvitaes holding light and shadows toward sunset. The coolness slides across the clapboards and the thick gray paint of the porch. Citronella candles are lit but under the picnic table the mosquitoes are biting. Spikes of plantain like sturdy little flagships dot the lawn. Present collapses on the past along the split rail fence among tall weeds. I'm caught in this surge at the edge of a field turning ochre. The flood of gold light feels warm but I pace back and forth as a ghost, a silver wisp of fog clinging to the hollow, a swirl of dust in the driveway. channel buoy steering clear of the ledges close to shore |