How Quickly Nothing is FamiliarLaura Van Prooyen
First, the headless vireo. Then the Labrador sprung from the brush. And now the man with his hand between the scruff and collar leading the dog away. My daughter runs the worn path. Her pink jacket bright as bubblegum, or lipstick. Or the bougainvillea I once potted in Texas far from these woods where everything has gone green. She runs toward the river, a bloom in a tunnel at the bend where the man disappears. Before I think to say no.
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