Susquehanna
“View of the Susquehanna,” watercolor by Vivian Starr I. The kayak eases in— its green plastic sides scrape rock as the rower digs her oar through mud—and sunrise- pink waves embrace the vessel. A lonely train howls its morning echo, crossing the old Rockville Bridge where the golden plovers catch insects drawn to mossy walls. An old man watches the fishers work from his porch, watches the train creep, watches the kayaker rest, adjusts his cap to the sun. II. Bass kiss the surface, gulp E. coli microbes. They process the toxin throughout their cold bloodstreams as they...
Read MoreThe Porch
I was premature. Born yellowish, butterfly kicking forward, already homesick when they snapped the cord. They placed me in the sun to bake beneath the maples on their new porch where I could speak to the trees with cries and hear myself attempt the forest sounds. My first language: shhhhh-ahhh-shhheeee. Wind teaching a child to listen to suburban alienation. Each caterpillar inching on my skin was a friend to gather, greet; each cardinal was a scarlet blur of echoing skylight, calling me back from the harsh kick of a car engine. My ears were tuned to the patter of rain on the porch boards,...
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