by Jan Wiezorek
Spring runs up to the sun in a damp land that lives all wet to the banks. The owl seeks prey, and from the deck you will see grass-hues. He feeds deer from his hand here. He calls them, “Here, deer,” and they come, as big-eyed as burrs. They live in wet, with wild flocks and fox’s tails. You will walk here with those long gone, and talk the trails out, each step a plea up to the sun and down on the flow. It runs to the mouth, and then on. The trick is: teach it to slow a bit. ___ Jan Wiezorek writes and paints from the trails of Southwest Michigan. His work has appeared in The London Magazine, among other journals, and he has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago.