If it was a clear day, you saw the suggestion of a city
far to the east. Every summer, I imagined that it was
several centuries ago: this was a safe hiding place
for the rebel’s hogs in the revolutionary war. Unless you knew
it was there, you would just walk past. I would find bones
of small animals and weave them into my eighteenth century story.
I shot at British soldiers and small animals with my rifle
hitting red coats, missing the animals. I could still hear
the misses cutting through the tree leaves then hitting tree trunks
with a thud. At home, there was a heavy battle
sword that I knew was used in the Civil War.
It had dried blood on the blade which my parents said was rust.
Acknowledgements include: The Ravens Perch, upstreet 16, Mudfish 21, Pank, Work Literary Magazine, Offcourse, and The Westchester Review.
