land[E]scape
Deafening, the static of departure. The dirt road squeals though you keep under the limit. A cramped silence refuses to veer -- almost wears the gild right off wheatfields as the truck deepens a rut started generations ago. Somewhere, a turn was missed. Somehow, a fatherly confession about the last piece of pie had come to mean there is nothing left to be said. Once again, I leave home, pass a good harvest of telephone poles planted in their ramrod row; each line was purposely raised, shoulders its share of tough questions, tolerates all connections. Some were not raised well enough. Dear, we drive for a long stretch, not one word to shelter us until, I point and you nod. Gears shift as we steer clear of those tiresome warnings to brave a freeborn supercell. Cyndi MacMillan Cyndi MacMillan poetry has recently appeared in Grain Magazine and the Fieldstone Review. Her verse, short fiction and novel-in-progress resentfully compete for her attention. She lives in New Hamburg, Ontario, home to North America’s largest working water wheel. Coffee and family allow ideas to percolate.
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June 2025
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