Author Archives: Qu Literary Magazine

23 May, 2016

Man’s Best Friend

SYNOPSIS

When Jane goes to visit her elderly parents, she discovers that her father has acquired a

dog. An invisible dog. Her concern for his mental stability soon gives way to anger at

her mother for allowing him this delusion. But the root of her father’s need for canine

companionship is more complicated than simple dementia, and Jane comes to realize the

sad but necessary truth about coping with loss.

ESTIMATED RUNNING TIME

20 minutes

CAST REQUIREMENTS

2 female actors, 1 male actor

SET

The suggestion of a living room – the only essential piece of furniture is a sofa, but this

could be suggested by a line of chairs, cubes, etc.

MAN’S BEST FRIEND

Characters

JANE about 45 years old

CELIA about 70 years old

HAL about 70 years old

Afternoon, the living room of an elderly married couple.

Lights up on CELIA, who is knitting.

A knock on the door, and JANE opens it,

poking her head in.

JANE

Anybody home?

JANE enters carrying a brown bag full of

books, and an overnight case. CELIA starts

to get up.

JANE (continued)

No, no. Don’t get up.

CELIA

Don’t be silly. I’m not a cripple.

JANE

Sit down. I haven’t forgotten my way around.

CELIA

It’s been so long since you last visited, I thought maybe

you might have.

JANE

And I’m sure you’d be happy to have me still living here?

CELIA

I only meant that I wish we could see you a bit more often.

JANE sets down the bag and case, and gives

CELIA a hug.

JANE

I do, too. You know I do. It’s just hard for me to come

up here that often.

CELIA

It’s only two hours.

JANE

It’s not just the drive, Mom.

CELIA

Sometimes, I think that you don’t like coming to visit.

JANE

Mom, you know it’s not like that. Anyway, I’m here now,

and you and Dad have me until Sunday.

(beat)

Where is Dad? I bought him this bag of books at the

library sale. They let you fill up a whole bag for three

dollars. And there was one table that looked like they

sorted it just for him. All his favorites. I snagged him

five or six Zane Grays. He’s probably read most of them

before, but I figured he wouldn’t remember.

CELIA

(abruptly)

Your father’s mind is fine. You have no right to—

JANE

I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that—

Mom, Dad never remembers anything he reads. Or movies, or

TV. It all just goes in and right back out again. He’s

always been like that. Why would you think—?

CELIA

I’m sorry. You’re right.

(beat)

He hasn’t been reading much lately.

JANE

Dad not reading?

(a moment)

He’s not going blind, is he?

CELIA

No, no. He can still see a bug on the fencepost. He just

doesn’t have so much time for reading now.

JANE

What do you mean? Why?

CELIA

It’s since… since he got…

JANE

What? Come on.

CELIA

Since he got the… dog.

JANE

You guys got a dog?

CELIA

Yes. Well, your father did.

JANE

Mom, that’s great! You know they say having a pet helps

you live longer. It keeps you happier and healthier.

CELIA

Well, it keeps your father from reading. And from doing a

lot of his chores and other things around here. He’s

out… walking it now.

JANE

See, exercise. Healthy. You should be out walking, too.

CELIA

It’s really his dog. He spends a lot of time, um… taking

care of it.

JANE

Mom, are you jealous? You’ve become a dog-widow. What

kind is it?

CELIA

Well… you’ll see when he gets back.

JANE

I love those funny little pug dogs. But they’re a bit too

precious for Dad. And you’re not supposed to get purebred

dogs anymore. So many perfectly good mutts in shelters

need homes. Where’d he get it?

CELIA

I really don’t know. He just… had it when I came home.

JANE

He didn’t even ask you?

CELIA

I didn’t think it would be a problem. Look, it seems to

help him, so…

JANE

You don’t like the dog, do you? Mom, I can tell. It’s

not fair to you if you don’t like it. You need to tell

him. But do it before he gets too attached, or the dog

starts to feel at home. How long has he had it?

HAL’s voice is heard calling from offstage.

HAL

Is that Janie’s car in the driveway? Janie?

HAL enters.

JANE

Hi Dad.

JANE and HAL hug. He looks her over.

HAL

You get prettier every time I see you.

JANE

Yeah, right, Dad. You look good, though. And you’re

moving great compared to last time I saw you.

HAL

I feel great.

HAL does a quick little jig.

CELIA

Hal, stop acting like a child. You’ll hurt yourself.

HAL

Your mother envies my perennial youth.

JANE

It must be the dog walking. Where is this new family

member?

CELIA

Yes. I told her about your new dog.

JANE

Where is he? Or she?

HAL

She. She’s playing out in the front yard.

JANE goes quickly to the door.

JANE

Dad, there’s no fence. You can’t leave her there. What if

she runs into the street? She could get hit—

HAL

She’s not gonna run into the street, honey.

JANE has swung open the door, looking out.

JANE

There’s no dog out here. She’s gone. Dad!

She crosses back to HAL.

JANE (continued)

What were you thinking, letting her run loose?

HAL steps out the door, and whistles.

HAL

(offstage)

Daisy! Here, girl. C’mere, girl.

(brief pause)

Atta girl. Good dog.

(calling in to JANE)

She’s right here, Jane. Good God, you’re as bad as your

mother, thinking I can’t even take care of a dog.

HAL enters, and stands inside the door. A

few moments pass, as he looks at the two

women, and JANE looks at him.

HAL (continued)

Well? I think you owe me a small apology. Don’t you?

JANE looks to CELIA for some guidance, but

CELIA just continues knitting.

JANE

Dad, I don’t understand. Where’s—

HAL

She doesn’t understand.

HAL kneels down and hugs the imaginary dog.

HAL (continued)

(to his imaginary dog)

You understand me, eh, girl? No generation gap between us.

JANE

Mom, what’s going on?

CELIA

What do you mean?

JANE

I mean this “dog” thing.

HAL

Janie, she is not a “thing”.

(to the dog)

She didn’t mean it. You’re the best dog in the world,

aren’t you girl.

JANE

Dad, stop this. It’s ridiculous.

CELIA

It’s okay, Jane.

HAL

Just because a dog isn’t purebred, that doesn’t make it any

less loving, or loyal.

(to the dog)

Does it, Daisy. You’re such a good doggie.

JANE takes CELIA aside.

JANE

What is going on?

CELIA

He… has a dog. I told you that.

HAL sits on the sofa.

JANE

How long has he been like this?

HAL reacts as the dog jumps onto the sofa.

HAL

Daisy. No, Daisy. Get down.

CELIA

(to HAL)

Maybe you should take the dog out back, Hal. Here. Take

her ball and throw it for her.

CELIA picks up the imaginary dog’s imaginary

ball, and hands it to HAL.

HAL

We just got back from our walk. Let me talk with Janie,

for god’s sake. Come sit down and talk, Janie.

CELIA

Hal, take Daisy outside.

(brief pause)

Jane’s allergic to dogs.

HAL

You always loved dogs.

JANE

It… sorta just developed in me. A few years ago.

CELIA

That’s why she won’t go near the dog, dear. Now take it

outside, before your daughter…breaks out in a rash, or

something.

HAL gets up, bounces the imaginary ball, and

leads the dog out.

HAL

Come on, girl. Ball? Ball? That’s a good girl. Let’s

play ball.

JANE looks to make sure HAL is gone, then

goes to CELIA.

CELIA

Now don’t you start with me.

JANE

Start what? Mom, he’s sick. He needs help.

CELIA

Your father is not sick. He’s…

JANE

He’s what? What do you call a man with an imaginary dog?

Eccentric? Interesting?

CELIA

You don’t understand. Daisy… comforts him.

JANE

“Daisy” is not there. There is no Daisy. Does he see

other things that aren’t there?

CELIA

Of course not. Except for the dog toys, and leash, and dog

food. Just those “dog” things, you know.

(beat)

He needed a dog. That’s all.

JANE

That’s not all. He’s delusional. You need to have him

looked at. For Christ’s sake, Mom, it might be

something…physical. A tumor or something. Even if it’s

not, if it’s some mental problem, either way, he’s sick,

Mom. He needs to see a doctor.

CELIA

Your father is not sick. You said it yourself, he looks

great. And his dog is why. What’s the harm, if it makes

him feel better.

JANE

I’m not going to argue with you, Mom. He’s sick and I’m

taking him to the doctor.

CELIA

He’s not sick.

JANE

He is.

CELIA

He isn’t sick!

(very long beat)

I am.

JANE

(a silence)

Mom?

CELIA

It’s why I asked you to come down. I couldn’t tell you

over the phone.

JANE steps away, and she looks out a window.

JANE

What is going on here? Dad’s in the yard with an invisible

dog, and you’re… What?

CELIA

It’s come back. The cancer. In my pancreas this time.

It’s—

JANE

Mom, did you…? I mean, what are they doing about it?

CELIA

There’s nothing they can do. Oh, I’m getting some

treatments to slow the growth, but it’s really just a

matter of time.

JANE

Are you just going to County? There’s other places.

Better places.

CELIA

Jane, I’m dying. I’m passed denying that. I’m beyond

fighting it.

JANE steps away, and again looks outside.

JANE

Does he know?

CELIA

Yes, honey. Of course he knows.

JANE

Well, Jesus, mom. What the hell is he doing?

CELIA

Jane, there’s no call for that kind of language.

HAL enters, behind his imaginary dog.

HAL

(to the dog)

Hey! Hey! Settle down, now. You’re inside, Daisy. Go

easy. That’s a good girl.

JANE approaches HAL.

JANE

How could you?

HAL

Could I what?

JANE

How dare you treat her like this?

HAL looks to the dog.

HAL

Janie, she has to behave in the house.

JANE slaps HAL.

CELIA

Jane!

JANE

She needs you.

HAL grabs hold of JANE’s wrist.

HAL

Just what has gotten into you, young lady?

JANE

Let go of me.

HAL

Not before I know why my own child has hit me.

CELIA

Both of you. Please, stop!

JANE

I know what’s going on. Mom told me.

CELIA

Hal, let go of her. Jane, stop struggling. There’s no

reason—

JANE

How can you act like this when Mom’s dying?

CELIA

Just drop it! Please!

HAL releases JANE in response to her

question. The room is uncomfortably quiet

and still. Then HAL goes to CELIA.

HAL

I’m gonna take Daisy down to the park. Let her chase the

pigeons. She likes to chase the pigeons.

CELIA

I know she does. You go ahead, dear.

HAL

(to the dog)

Come on, Daisy. Let’s get your leash on.

HAL starts to exit, passing JANE without a

look or word. He stops at the door and

turns back to CELIA.

HAL (continued)

Maybe while I’m gone, you can remind our daughter about

respect for her parents in their own house.

(to the dog)

Come on, girl.

HAL exits.

JANE

You can’t encourage him like that, Mom. He needs to be

helping you. You need him… helping you.

CELIA

I need him to be happy.

JANE

I know how hard it must be for you, but you can’t just let

Dad…fall apart, too. How long’s he been acting like this?

CELIA

I’ve told you already. You’re father is not crazy. He’s

completely aware of what’s going on, in this house, in the

world. It’s not like you think it is. He isn’t “acting”

like anything.

JANE

Mom!

CELIA

He just has a dog. He’s got Daisy a few days after we

learned about my…

(beat)

Oh, Jane. Was I worried? Of course I was, at first. But

when I stopped worrying about it, I began to see that your

father was happier with the dog.

(beat)

When the doctor told us… well, your father…started

crying. I think he was more upset than I was. Your father

hadn’t been like that since your grandmother died. For two

or three days, he was… He just sat around the house. He

didn’t seem to know what to do.

(CELIA continues)

It got to the point where I was angry at him, for shutting

down on me. That he should feel sorrier for himself than

for me. After all, I’m the one who’s dying.

JANE

Oh, Mom, don’t…

CELIA

So I made him go out. I made him leave the house and take

a walk. I had to scream at him, but he finally left.

(pause)

And when he came home, he had Daisy.

(beat)

I thought why is this happening now? Why, when I’m so

sick? And I told the doctor.

JANE

So you did ask him about Dad? What did he say?

CELIA

He told me not to worry about it. He told me if it helped

Hal, that I should let him have his dog. Let him rely on

her. Especially when we have to deal with my situation.

JANE

I bet it’s not that uncommon. Right? I mean…

CELIA

That dog helped your father come back to life. And that’s

all I need from him right now. That he not die with me.

JANE

(long pause)

Did the doctor say…? How long do they think?

CELIA

It’s different for everyone. Three months, or if I’m

lucky…

(sad laugh)

Lucky. Well, then maybe even a year.

JANE hugs CELIA.

JANE

Oh, Mom. I don’t want you to die.

CELIA

Neither does your father. And certainly I don’t want it

either. But it’s going to happen. And it doesn’t make it

any better to let it get the best of you.

JANE

(pause)

Do you think the dog will still… I mean, do you think

Dad will still have the dog… you know, after you’re gone.

CELIA

I doubt it. But if he does, I think that’s just fine. And

he’ll still have you, and you’ll have him.

CELIA goes to a shelf and gets a photo

album. She sits on the sofa.

CELIA (continued)

Come sit down. I want to look at some of our pictures.

JANE

Yeah. That would be nice.

JANE sits next to CELIA.

CELIA

Look at you, with your bicycle. That was when your father

took off the training wheels.

JANE

That was such a cool bike. I hated when I got too big for

it. There’s you and Dad in Hawaii. You look so young.

CELIA

We were young.

HAL enters with the dog.

CELIA (continued)

Back already?

HAL

There wasn’t a single pigeon at the park today. Old Daise

must’ve scared ‘em all off last week.

(to the dog)

Is that what you did, you silly dog?

CELIA

Jane and I are looking at the family album. Come sit down.

HAL looks at JANE. JANE goes to him.

JANE

I’m sorry, Dad. I was… I’m tired, and it was a long

drive. I’m really sorry.

HAL

(making it a joke)

Sorry? For what?

(beat)

Ah, Janie, you don’t ever have to be sorry for anything to

me.

HAL hugs her.

CELIA

Come sit down, you two. Look at these ones. When we took

that camping trip to Yosemite.

They sit on the sofa, flanking CELIA.

HAL

I miss a good camping trip. Dark starry skies, roaring

campfire.

JANE

Toasted marshmallows.

CELIA

I don’t miss the mosquitos.

The dog apparently jumps onto the sofa.

HAL

(to the dog)

Daisy, no! Down! You know you’re not allowed on the sofa.

JANE looks at her father, and then at the

invisible dog. She gestures to the dog, and

pats the sofa next to herself.

JANE

(to the dog)

Here, girl. Come on. Up!

HAL

Janie…

JANE strokes the dog, next to her on the

sofa.

JANE

Dad, she’s one of the family. She can sit with us, can’t

she?

CELIA smiles at JANE.

HAL

I suppose it couldn’t hurt anything. She’s a good dog,

isn’t she?

JANE

She really is.

Lights down.

END PLAY

23 May, 2016

Rod McFadden

Rod McFadden began writing plays in 2009.    Since then, his plays have been well-received by audiences of theatres in San Francisco and throughout the country.   He has received awards in national playwriting competitions for his plays, Love Birds, Getting the Message, Counting on Love (which was also a Heideman award finalist).  His work was chosen for the People’s Choice award at the 2012 inspiraTO Festival in Toronto.  One Monkey More or Less appears in the Smith and Kraus’ anthology, Best 10-Minute Plays of 2015.    Rod serves on the Board of Directors for the Playwrights Center of SF.

23 May, 2016

Sandhill Cranes and Wine

                                                                                

Three Sandhill cranes landed, framed by the fading grey oak of the pasture fence. The cranes moved slowly across the paddock out beyond the grape arbor, and loomed tall over dying weeds and hay grasses. The birds with lovely feathers stayed and grazed for what seemed a long time, though their gaze remained cautious toward the house. I let Stella, our shepherd, out the front door for her morning rounds. She circled the house, yet the cranes kept calm, drawn to the sweet low lying alfalfa. I wondered, perhaps Stella cannot see the birds or perhaps, their soft, ghostly grey blended with her black and white view of the world.

I keep a small row of assorted fruit trees along the drive. The Macintosh apple trees normally bear fruit though the deer claim most. Two peach trees have been productive over the years but both lost large limbs from the weight of the spring snow. With the exception of a few plump peaches, the trees, though leafed out, were barren.

I planted two new hybrid apple trees by the pasture fence a year ago in the spring to replace a perfectly formed mulberry tree lost to disease. The mulberry had been our favorite, the juicy black berry fruit especially enjoyed by our three grandsons. We never quite got around to making mulberry jam because berries somehow disappeared right off the tree. The mystery of vanished fruit was solved with little detective work as purple stains dotted the white tee shirts worn by Zeke, the middle boy, and Walker , the youngest. The oldest, Grady, naturally told on his younger brothers, though I suspect that he also participated in a free for all berry fight. Mulberry juice disdains the effort of modern washing machines.

Then a year came with no fruit. The sweet wood invited pests inside the bark. During the snow of winter, we watched helplessly out the back window while woodpeckers throttled the mulberry, pecking for hidden bugs.

A summer-long drought had followed the strangest spring weather I can remember. Ninety degree days in March caused fruit trees to bud far too early. A seasonable yet heavy late spring snow nipped life from the fruit buds. The weight of the wet accumulation tore limbs and broke orchard keepers’ hearts, along with their pocketbooks

The grapes had started out well, apparently not affected by the spring snow. In June, I fought my annual battle of conscience; whether or not to spray the vines with pesticide. Just once in the dozen year life of my vineyard, have I sprayed the fruit. The grapes flourished that year but I always worried; about the birds, about tainted wine, about my family and friends eating grapes from the vine, though I always warned them to wash first. I chose not to spray, to take my chances, trusting nature to take my side.

In July, I began to notice birds fluttering in the vines. Thankful I hadn’t sprayed, I enjoyed watching sparrows come and go, through the deep green leaves that camouflaged the cedar arbor. On the hottest of summer days, walking the aisle beneath the leaves is much like entering an air conditioned room. But when August arrived, many of the hopeful fingers of fruit were gone. I fretted over the loss and hoped September would leave just enough for a modest vintage.

In mid-August I noticed the two new apple trees being affected by the dry season. Flora have a way of acting out to describe their needs. Leaves curled only slightly, and colors faded in barely noticeable hues, in a plea for water. A small fir tree, planted in the spring, behind a row of healthy blackberry bushes, also wanted a drink. I put the drip hoses out with a nagging guilt, and hoped that I had not waited too long.

After Labor Day, with rain finally in the forecast, I fertilized all the trees. This year’s harvest was lost but in the growing business “next year” always gives hope. The sun came out before hiding in rhythm with a musical beat, and I pounded the fertilizer stakes deep around drip edges. Rolling clouds and a few sprinkles of rain slowed the process only slightly and soon I finished. A muscle twitch portended an ache which I soothed with a drink of cool well water while resting in a soft chair by the woodstove.

I sat back and pondered the grapes growing sweet on the arbor I had built from cedar saplings. In good years, the vines produced enough grapes for two or three dozen bottles of wine, only a bit oversweet, and several cartons of canned jelly, flawless on fresh warm bread with butter, and a surprisingly tasty marinade for both chicken and flank steak.

Outside, the arbor flourished with carefully tended with vines I had trimmed back and formed on a cold March day. The vines had returned healthy and filled with leaves through the summer. Buds appeared on the purple-brown virgin leads, and one day, without notice, small and gentle fingers of fruit, on tiny bright green stems, had sprouted from pinkish flowers.

The midday sun broke through the clouds and beckoned me back to the arbor. Grapes grown sweet waited to be crushed to wine before winter arrived.

The cranes looked on as I set out to the arbor and picked surviving grapes by hand. Carrying a large pot, I thought I might need to buy grapes this year, or maybe try using juice from a local fruit market. But I had never used someone else’s grapes in my wine. I began to pick along the outer side of the arbor, the sun still out and the wind freshening. I used a different method than in other years. I picked each grape individually or in strands of two or three and carefully dropped the fruit in the pot. I found a few bulging bunches. My spirits rose. Working my way around the arbor, I pulled back leaves and beheld more and more of the juicy orbs hidden in dark, shady reaches.

The sky darkened as I turned under the canopy, the first pot almost filled. Raindrops hit the leaf ceiling above me, but underneath, I stayed dry.  My fingers chilled like the grapes in the shade. As I reached, occasionally a grape was broken and I tasted the fruit, thick and sweet. The rain hitting the leaves echoed, and drops continued as the sun returned, lighting the earth. I was transfixed by the sun shining above a light autumn shower.

After a couple hours, the year’s crop lay in the pots. I had picked about ten gallons of promising fruit and returned to the house, cleaned up the fermenting crock, and began pulling each stem away from each grape. I separated the first four pounds, and kneaded the fruit in a large bowl, squeezing with my hands, and smelled the rich sugary juice as the grapes turned magically from fruit into a liquid mixture. I finished the first bowl. The crushed grapes were ready for the crock. But what to do with my hands?  If I picked up the bowl it would slip, break on the ceramic tile floor, the coveted juice would be lost.

Instead, I licked the thick juice, first from my palms; then from the back of each of my sun-browned hands that tingled from the tannins in the fruit, and finished by licking each finger. The taste was exquisite.

Startled from reverie by an intense prehistoric croaking, a herding dog bark, and the whinny of the Haflinger pony out by the barn, I ran to the window curious, but seeing no cause, trotted barefoot out the door, and felt cool green grass in my toes. Three cranes soared high over the grape arbor, circled the barn and the pasture like angels having shed ghostly grey masks, and flew to the west over tall red pine trees, in search of water.

23 May, 2016

Tom Conlan

Tom Conlan lives, writes, and tends his grape vines in the highlands of Northern Michigan. He has captained a Coast Guard Cutter, sailed the world’s lakes and oceans, and now searches for the elusive brook trout in backwater streams where they love to hide. Tom’s work has appeared in print in Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Issue #12, in the print Anthology, Puppy Love, in Tulip Tree Review #1,in  the anthology, “The Water Holds No Scars,” and is forthcoming in QU Literary Review His work  was chosen as a finalist for the Annie Dillard Prize in the Bellingham Review. Tom attended the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte, and a Master of Science from the US Naval Postgraduate School in Monterrey, California.

23 May, 2016

The Drowned Room

In the mariners’ church,

those dredged from the sea

laid out like fresh catch.

 

Identified by candlelight,

dried foam at their mouth,

the sea changed them.

 

Carried to the limits of water,

the waves rescinded their promise,

leaving them white as whalebone.

 

Lastly seeing

the ultramarine world

they occupied completely;

 

their ship impossibly stalled overhead,

skulking like some legendary creature

in the reachless dropdown light.

 

Below, the bones,

wrack and sump

of those never recovered;

 

while the fortunate ones

lay patiently in the drowned room,

waiting to be given back their names.

23 May, 2016

John Paul Davies

John Paul Davies is a member of the Poised Pen writers (thepoisedpen.co.uk). Originally from Liverpool, UK, he now lives in Navan, Ireland. His work has been published in The Fog Horn, Rosebud, The Pedestal, Grasslimb, Pseudopod, Ares Magazine, Killing The Angel, and is forthcoming from Sci-Fest LA and Footnote. A poem of his is displayed in the finest pub in Liverpool, The Ship & Mitre.

23 May, 2016

Face

Holding her eye-level after the bath,

the towel damp under her arms,

she cranes back and looks at me

almost cross-eyed, as if until now

she’s seen my face in pieces: eyes,

nose, in the same orbit, uncontained

by any outer limit. Now she sees

the whole.  She steadies herself,

her palms on each side of my neck,

and out pours the fountain of her

breath, uncolored by milk and those

first two teeth beneath the pink

glaze of her gums. She leans forward,

her mouth moves over my nose,

mouth, chin— her warm face asking

for mine, all of it, and now.

23 May, 2016

Lane Falcon

Lane Falcon’s poem’s can be found in publications including Rhino, december, The Cortland Review, and more. She won an award for poetry too long ago to mention by name. A single mother of two, one with special needs, she lives in Alexandria, Virginia.

23 May, 2016

House Wrens

Who came down first, I’ll never

know, but I suspect a

fledgling fell, down the cabin

 

chimney flue, and couldn’t, didn’t

fly, so new, the wings, the body

ready but not ready,

 

so fell.  And does a house wren

calculate the cost of not

one, but two, fledglings lost? I

 

wasn’t there. I didn’t see.

No one consulted me

about the nest. Wise enough

 

in summer, yes, without a

fire, I think I see, and yet

the fledglings fell down my cabin

 

flue, and landed hard inside

the firebox. I’m trying now

to understand the weeks of

 

open beaks that drew her down.

Trusting what humans make, down

she went into what might have been

 

an empty grate, a simple room,

a window open on

another day, but wasn’t.

 

Once trapped the three spent themselves

against the glass stove door. I

wasn’t here. I didn’t hear

 

whatever language wrens might

sing to me.  I have not learned

it. So light for flight but

 

didn’t fly. I found them later,

first one fledgling, buffeting

a small regret. But then

 

another, and the mother.

They cried, the three. They beat the glass.

I didn’t hear.  I didn’t see.

23 May, 2016

Kathryn Kirkpatrick

Raised in the nomadic subculture of the U.S. military, Kathryn Kirkpatrick grew up in the Philippines, Germany, Texas, and the Carolinas. For over 20 years she has lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina where she is a professor of English at Appalachian State University. She is the author of six collections of poetry, most recently, Her Small Hands Were Not Beautiful(Clemson UP, 2014).  Her poems have appeared widely in literary journals, including Shenandoah, Southern Review, storySouth ,Terrain.org and other magazines.  She is the editor of Cold Mountain Review.