While fiction is my main medium these days, every so often my muse tosses me a poem. This may actually be the first prose poem I’ve written (unless you count some of my flash fiction pieces, which I really don’t).
The bird feeder is pulverized — shards of plastic, bent wire. I imagine your weight on it, your claws on the metal oak leaves, your glossy doggish coat, the hump of your shoulders, pressing down hard. I look for tracks, but there are none. You came in the night, in the moonlight of a wavering spring, and in the night you moved on. How many other worlds move through our coffee-and-timecard lives — around, above, beneath? We might think we’re the center of this orbit, and most days we’re allowed to believe it — until the sight of you strolling past the woodpile, as we might drive to the grocery store, a worn-down path. As if this house is at the bottom of the sea while we sleep, shapes darting in the darkness past the windows, great forms looming in the deep.