THE FIRST LOCKDOWN

birdsong splashed mornings

grass-shadowed fawns

quail, rabbits and

coyotes

abound

a brief reprieve,

Brothers and Sisters

Fool’s Gold

how lonely we’ll be when you’re gone

I read once that nothing is ever lost.

Does Gaia hold you always in her heart—your spirit, your blueprint, your DNA? 

Or perhaps you hide your scattered few

ready to emerge and thrive again

once we’ve destroyed ourselves

or returned to sanity.

COVID ICU

To die without a loved one’s touch

Permission to leave

Never asked

Never granted

But to rest within a stranger’s eyes

Their touch warm too

God, the nearest thou at hand

THE CROW

Black against the burnt orange clouds

A crow swoops across my windshield  

I brake and swerve                                         

the bay at my shoulder

the road’s thin white line 

warning against the slide into dark water 

cars behind me, hungry wolves

snap at my tail lights

and starving for their former lives

race to familiar places

where the old normal

might hide

Masks, washed hands, distance from touch and breath

politics descends to chaos

Taut threads fray

world agreements fall apart

A byzantine novel

titillating to read

gut-hollowing to live

as California’s

scrubby chaparral, towering pines 

subdivisions and mountain cabins

turn to smoke 

accelerator sinks under my shoe

The midnight crow

lightning without rain

the fire comes

Shera Hill grew up in California and has written short stories, poetry, and novels, since she was a child. She recently retired as a library branch manager and has published short fiction and poetry in such journals as the First Literary Review – East, Everyday Fiction, and Ancient Paths Online.

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