as you slipped
between the river birch branches
and wineberry shrubs along the drive.
Your breath,
gone elsewhere
while the morning’s mist stayed.
             That week, even the dog
remained indifferent.
A pair of disbelievers, he and I.

The crows pause nightly now on the water tower,
             the wineberries, weighted down—
their fat orbs as somber as a glow of tail lights,
passing strands of sparkle that float
and fade along the roadway’s
pebbled edge.

Some days, if the way is clear,
I’ll forget basic truths
and focus on the blanketed horses
clustered near the bend.
             You,
             part of a past life now,
             are a bird glimpsed in the rear view.

             That last time,
we laughed over our waitress’s good sense
             to pour more coffee,
             which allowed more time to talk,
the diner open all night.
If we could sit together
again, I’d take slower sips,
ask you more questions,
encourage you to stay.

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J. A. Lagana’s poetry has appeared in Atlanta Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Cider Press Review, Heron Tree, Rattle, and elsewhere. She is the author of the poetry collection Make Space (Finishing Line Press, 2023) and a forthcoming chapbook Edge of Highway. She was a finalist for the 2023 Julia Peterkin Literary Award in Poetry. An avid bird-watcher and knitter, she is a founder and former co-editor of River Heron Review, and lives in a Bucks County, PA river town where she raised her family. Learn more at https://www.jlagana.com.

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