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.