on the last good breeze. IV The girl never leaves the river. Her brother never looks at it again. When he is twenty two he will rob the only liquor store in town but lose an eye when they catch him, twelve miles away. When she was younger the girl would dance ballet. Her brother, watching, knew for sure that God was more a part of us than what he’d been told, that he’d written his words in the marrow of our bones. V In the park I watch the leaves lift and fall in a timid breeze; their rustling calling out old words. All morning I’ve packed brown boxes, unsure of where I’m going. I wonder what I loved about this place and what I’ll leave behind. Clouds roll in and darken. I’m halfway gone when the rain begins to fall and change the nature of the song. 108 theMeadow
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