Who loots the dew or enjoins a shadow to guard a tree? The bird in the pie can't pretend to arms, its claws rock the coin in the crust. The train's single eye examines the tree that the pie holds the fruit of, its engine rasps past the bird as if smoke lent its shadow. And the dew? Surely it's a dark gulp under a tall hat the bird wings over. Not noise, not the founding father's nose. Repeat after me: I solemnly swear: I could swear otherwise, my lips flying too.
Copyright © 2012 by Terese Svoboda. Used with permission of the author.