It’s filtered; it’s feathered - Eric Huff

and I am away by morning. the light is filtered; it’s feathered. but the night still clings to me like the cicada shell suspended upside down along the maple tree in MC’s backyard. and just like that moment, I want to peel it off – to feel what’s left of it between my thumb and my forefinger – the bits of concrete and dirt, the big river. but I let it all go down, muddy flats and old songs of which just parts of the melody wrap around me like the humidity of evening. Genevieve watches as I work to unfold a paper crane, as I attempt to smooth out all the creases with the side of my hand and what is it? a patchwork? a map of lonely intersections? the river breathes in the day, holds it there for a moment and then lets out a slow and measured exhale until her lungs are empty and her mind is clear.