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Starts Terence McCaffrey April, and it’s snowing In Connecticut. No more unusual but for an intermittent hush that grows into the sound of a proximate jet engine and drowns the perfect silence, weighs on me like Fate done up in a suit and tie makes me think that in a few days the forest will dry— the sun always finds its corners— and we can steal outside, jacketless, shedding our old pretenses and wave to our neighbors for the first time since December, realizing that they, too, have bared the burden of this imbruted world. In the covert of trees we’ll let leaf mold and rud punch our noses press their way into our lungs make us mouth, Rebirth: fix it, try something new, write even because we’re really coming down now and the month feels like damp paper. Just listen as another crosses our pale sky, lost somewhere in the whitening world; imagine everyone on board, pasted to their seats, praying 75

2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  
2017 Freshwater Literary Journal  

Professional literary journal produced at Asnuntuck Community College

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