Steven Carter

West Shore

An undisciplined moon pops in and out of clouds, doing just what it wants. Down below I walk through pine woods to my neighbors, certain of a hot toddy or at least a glass of merlot. But when I arrive the house is unlit and locked; peering through the window in a brief patch of bright moonlight I see the living room covered with a thick layer of dust; sheets on the furniture; cold ashes in the fireplace.

I wander to the desolate back garden where a leaning scarecrow grins and winks at me, then lowers his head disconsolately.

"You know, I do miss the crows," he murmurs. And the moon comes out again.

cry of a loon –
branches
closing behind me