Past the Forty-Fifth Parallel

MONICA RICO

For two days, we are north,

                alone,                 wanting snow.

                                The difference is we are

                afraid,  an octave

lower in this gray.

                                We haven’t          a pear,

                a bartlett won’t ruin

the houses where I’ve seen

                                music for two days.

                Say it     saddens us,

                                implies we are not

                                                keeping winter. There were

                ravens, and three            red-bellied

                                woodpeckers. Not

                in the morning, performing

                                twice      exactly as assigned.

Lake Michigan

                is a back yard.

                                Get the snow,      refill

                the black and white feathers

                               in the woods        marked

                private                 property and never

                                step on                  to the wrong

                                                quiet. We don’t know because

                                morning, afternoon, and evening

                look exactly       the same.

                                The leaf,               we keep trying to identify

                                                as some new bird.

Monica Rico is the author of the poetry collection Pinion and spends her summers on Lake Michigan in her retired sailing vessel named Bernard. She can be found on Instagram @monicaricopoet.

Find this piece on page 27 of Issue No. 2.