American Literary Magazine
On a Hill in Vermont Lindsey McCormack The mountains are quiet at this late hour. I lay nestled in them trapped, cradled. Everything beyond here, beyond this room, may very well not exist. The valley expands too far. Specs of starlight break, through the night’s pitch-black cloak. Empty streets allow, a universe of constellations. Noise ceased to exist here a long time ago; leaving coyotes occasional howels, ringing through the air, bouncing between mountains. Senses are lost in these hours, sometimes we drive to regain them, double-checking that the world still exists, as the car bounces over aged roads.
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