when it grows hot
fiction
edward w pritchard
Just predawn when it grows hot through my open window I can feel more than hear the footfalls of the long dead Native American explorer wandering along the lake shore where I live looking for
a change of scenery in his life. Through long practice he makes little sound as he walks yet the birds hear him and talk to him begging reply. He knows but I forget is Venus in the predawn East or West sky this morning and will the new sunrise be red or not suggesting a storm brought on by the heat.
Just like that he is gone. Too much light exposes him. Out of habit the birds continue to give him a shout out in his honor and remembrance.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment