by Shane Behler
Red clay dirt and sun-withered grass
underfoot in the postage-stamp yard:
I suck hot, tasteless air between my
teeth, air as sterile as hospital air. Yet
there’s no healing in suburbia. Only
a fescue-filled emptiness, a fescue-
filled void.
A mockingbird alights on the
fencepost and cries at me with her
stolen song. Where did she come
from? My eyes spark and I whistle
back my best reply. Yes, yes, she
says, start with the dogwood, I
deserve to sing among snowy spring
flowers.
And like that she’s gone, on to carry
her plea across the neighborhood.
Possibility fills my head as I watch
her disappear over the rooftops.
There’s no healing in suburbia—yet.
Shane Behler lives in Washington, D.C., where he works in wildlife conservation policy. He spends as much time outside of the city as he possibly can.
photo credit: Joshua J. Cotten, Unsplash