by Charles Wyatt

Dog’s footprint in the muddy sidewalk
here where the slab has shifted and sunk
a miniature alluvial plane has grown

I take yellow bucket and a milking stool
scrape up the unwilling earth
with any gardening tool I can find

haul it to the backyard—a small pile
for all that trouble—my knees and back
don’t like this kind of work

Roots of a departed maple tree
have rotted away—the sidewalk slants
and traps rain—my Sea of Azof

Standing in my front doorway
those years back watching rain
and hearing its pink noise my own waterfall

I saw the wind take down the tree
or I saw the letting go a fall so fast
I still saw it standing only the rain falling


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 1.

Charles Wyatt is the author of two collections of short fiction, a novella, and two poetry chapbooks. He holds degrees from the Curtis Institute of Music, The Philadelphia Musical Academy, and Warren Wilson College. He presently teaches for UCLA Extension and in the Low Residency MFA Program of the University of Nebraska. Before devoting himself exclusively to writing and teaching, he was principal flutist of the Nashville Symphony for 25 years.

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