by G. L. Pettigrew

    The night is still. Still and blood warm. The moon: Full in an India ink sky, a great lidless eye. Shinning like foxfire. Blind. Stars blink-are fireflies; fireflies blink-are dying embers. The voice of the nighthawk (Chordeiles minor) splits the black like a buzzsaw. Moths condense around streetlights. Conoceophalus crickets cry from long grass, from bushes. There is the occasional breath of honeysuckle.

Copyright 2019 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.