Les Kay
After we moved in, I mistook the coos of a turtle dove for an owl lost in light while we sat on the front porch, swinging, as the misinterpretation hooted omens, and though I’ve spent half my life correcting the mistakes of others, when I mentioned the wayward beast, you corrected me.
There were no slow ascents to a wooden rollercoaster’s first apex, no ancient scrolls to sift in search of evidence, no birdsong to foreshadow tumultuous skies, no nausea other than the usual; sun burned down, yellowing grass.
After we moved in, I told you that I loved our new yard lined with honeysuckle trees, that someday you will not have me to correct, or I will not have you, that there will be bougainvillea shade beneath the barn owl circling toward sunset.