The Hawk

I was watering our tomato plants when I noticed a hawk in the sky. It was directly above me, as if we were attached by a long, invisible string or cord. It seemed to float, like it had no part in its being there. I thought of those fake mustaches, torn to reveal who someone really is, only to be thrown to the passing wind. Later, when I told you about the hawk, your face opened up. I glimpsed your teeth–bats huddled in the dark. That’s what my love, any love, is, I think–bats huddled together in the dark, as long as that dark will have them.

Big Pile

I was pushing leaves into a big pile. I was the leaves being pushed. The wind pushed me. That’s all wind is, you know–thousands of tiny hands, moving gifts to whoever would receive them. Inside the leaves, which is to say inside me, was the house of my childhood. Robins were all over the ground. They had berries on their tongues. The house was a good house. A wind moved through, swaying the door that wasn’t quite closed. It’s not that I didn’t know what season it was, it was that there weren’t any seasons to know.

Horseplay

I was watching a play in which every character was played by a horse. It was very good. The protagonist-horse had just declared her undying love for the antagonist-horse when all the lights pointed at the stage went dark. A person next to me gasped. A person next to me coughed, shifted in their seat. It wasn’t clear if this was part of the show. There were no sounds from the stage, just the faint buzzing of where the lights had just been. I don’t know how long we stayed there, waiting for some kind of resolution. I only know that, eventually, you leaned over, whispering like a balloon  for a birthday party finally coming to rest. No matter how hard it tries, a heart cannot break on its own, you said.

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Dalton Day is a kindergarten teacher. He can be found at tinyghosthands.com.