Mark Katrinak
We didn’t make it very far. From the first scene—white magnolias
late to bloom, the fairways with a hint of burn, a wayward shot off
the second tee—you knew you were out of bounds. How many
penalty strokes can one accrue and still remain in game? That last
shot—inevitable where it came to stop—unplayable lie. Cicadas were
starting up their chain saws. “Don’t call me; I’ll call you. You know
the alternative.” I watched the sparrows depart abruptly from the trees:
an Aves instinct, a soundless call only flying vertebrates can hear. I
came to you conversely: a shadowed life, walking unknowingly toward
your corner. Decades later I still see those trees’ leaves shaking with-
out any sign of the wind. Magnolias drop their flowers which wind
disperses amongst the maples, evergreens. Along the boulevard, drivers
in a hurry disregard the caution lights.