by Kevin Dyer
Hoar-frost across the fence,
board by board, caving in at odd angles–
warped by nature.
Winter light fell
with a three-quarter moon frothing
behind a thinned-out cloud bank–
innocuous at first–
though soon froze us in our steps.
It came to earth at the field edge
and swiftly made its way through everyone.
You could see each, one by one, as he and she went down.
We learned, not quickly, it was impossible to be prepared
for what came next.
It hit a body hard, neck-high
and people fell as if
they were clotheslined.
It’s impossible to replicate
that sudden specter
of light and death.
Relentlessly, it runs through every family.
Kevin Dyer has published work in Denver Quarterly, Visions International, Two Cities Review, American Chordata, and The Cortland Review. He lives in a tiny, tiny house in Grass Valley, CA.