Evoking Sandcastle Cities

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fooling seclusion
making play
in flood-soaked dirt

Wee people stare at the rickety bridge rising over a patchy rivulet. Steam from shared tea ring-arounds their chatty mouths. Sipping from acorn caps, they all agree the tea is good. “I like the zing of it,” one chimes in. Ever gossiping, they spy the first iris bloom and clap with delight for what’s ahead. A feckless fisherman aims a pole over water, his leafy jacket stuck round stick-thin arms. “Not even a bite,” he snorts over his shoulder. Yesterday’s torrential rain left a plastic car abandoned in rutted earth. After a long night, the owner finally gives up trying to extract it and treks a path to the nearest help. On her way, she stops for a coup d’oeil of a sundog. “Don’t see that every day,” she murmurs to no one.

blue-feathered bandits
screeching
for nuts

E. L. Blizzard

Evoking Sandcastle Cities

in progress

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her body a ripple adrift with feathers as fingertip to fingertip they interlace now pull apart encircle until he spins away as she abandoned swirls herself in mists becomes eclipse of clay that spins upon a wheel of time

rimmed with snow
a rill
of birdsong

Diana Webb

in progress

(N.t.)

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The soldier is the same age as my son. His camouflage from some other conflict. He says they were indoors the day before at the Capitol. They hadn’t dressed for tents at the fairgrounds in January. It was kind of cold. He says after he got it he felt like Superman. He has to ask me to unclench my fist three times.

the virus
I don’t feel the needle
either

Chris Gordon

(N.t.)