by Redde Michaels
Did you see Aurora take flight? I overheard there
was no Southern coy, so long as you had a camera
to capture her streaking. Such a hasty raving from
the harbinger of dawn, though her escapade was
largely unnoticed here, where the vibrancy was lost
against the city’s skyglow – here the light trespasses
and assumes its home.
How did she look from where you perched? I
imagine you there, in the canopy above your
serpentine lake. Did she follow the dragon’s path in
her dance? As you traced her writhing sashays, she
would paint your eyes the shade of fireflies and
beckon you to chase.
Where did you go, or can you not say? The cicadas
now know you better than I may ever, but at least I
will always find you in their song. And in the fading
flash of molten lightning, winking secrets from the
trees in my city’s penumbra.