by Cari Oleskewicz

As we climb he says the tower reminds him of –

what, I cannot remember. I follow the drop

of his boots hoping to gaze across the slender

sea of tall brown grass, to wonder if the salt marsh

might heal these wounds we have created, these

hurts and hardships, shelved but certain.

Another park. Another trail. He is reminded of somewhere

we have been. Something else we were. I could access

prickly recollections scrolling through the snapshots

in my mind and on my phone. There, a yellow-bellied

sapsucker. There, a phoebe and a dozen bluebirds.

The kestrel on a wire, barely a hawk, but wise,

still of eye and seeing what I see.

The salt marsh smells of soil and seawater.

Peering down to brackish tide, I’m waiting

for a sign. I’ll see myself in his panorama,

claiming one corner of a long, narrow shot.

Me, leaning over wood. And there is a reddish

egret, juvenile, and there – we see the future.

Cari Oleskewicz is an American writer living in Europe. Her work is found in journals such as Taos Journal of Poetry, Grub Street, little somethings press, Thimble Literary Magazine, Mom Egg Review, Literary Orphans, The Collapsar, Lime Hawk Review, Parentheses Journal, and Mojave River Review. She’s working on a memoir.