shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Richard Widerkehr

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Power Outage After An August Draught

The wind tears trees from sidewalks,
so we read by flashlight, remembering
all the dry leaves in the heat, evenings
when the sun hung in the smoke

from wildfires like diesel. In the dark,
you say something about the striped
hawk moth, affixed one day to our screen
door by the slate steps like a messenger.

The blue smoke that floated over the lake,
a smudged halo, the yellow-jackets
fumbling at our sills—now we see

what was meant, which candles must be lit.
The sleeves of big-leaf maples heaving,
as rain hits the cracked black earth.