Northern Flicker
Mathias Alpuente A bird was here, spiders, and tree frogs in six-eight. The nearest freeway dopples in rushes [The turtled green water once did.] because the prows of trucks break the air in waves. This is where I made your coffee. This is where you hung the line. This must be home. The bird, I think it was red, or gray, and lived on seeds of chives, dill, and sweetgum in the dry winter. When I stood at the kitchen door, barefoot and sunbit, whistling, it would answer, Two-whee-who. Two-whee-who. Weir, weir, weir. Two-whee-who, who, who, who? then fly to the top of the cottonwood and watch for me to follow. I never learnt wings but I never forgot the call. It is a dry winter again. Something still answers. |
About the author:
Mathias de Alpuente inherited literature from a clutch of Southern writers, professors, and convent school nuns. Sometimes his New Orleans roots show; other times, the polish of hours spent in libraries gleams. His work gives voice to the unspeakable. |