a summer afternoon

 

Sitting

in the front yard

rubber hits

tar, trucks roar huge

and clumsy rattle,

cars swoosh by.

Mowers weave,

weed whackers

start stop, constant

nameless motors.

And the birdsong

endless,

tree to tree

insistent whistle,

cries, screeching –

saying

something very

very

important.

 

I feel my warm corner

 

of sun narrowing

think about earplugs

next time

 

watch biker

speed by

his smooth wheels

swift and

clicking.

 

 

Denise Mostacci Sklar has had a career as a dancer and now has had the good fortune to discover writing as another way to move through life. She particularly enjoys the stillness …waiting for words to make an entrance. Her most current work can be found in Wilderness House Literary Review and The Missing Slate, and forthcoming in Five [Quarterly], Split infinitive and The Stray Branch. Denise is from Hamilton MA.

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