BY CATHERINE HAUER
Are you prepared for your journey?
I saw the crow drifting with the North Wind.
The autumn leaves are becoming orange and stiff.
They fall, my father says, like everything else.
Dropped into a room full of ears,
Your words thrive like mosquitoes on blood.
In the twilight glow, your face shines like water;
When the sun sets, your waves crash upon my skin, heavy with the past.
You decide to part, to follow your own path;
The morning comes, the train leaves, the dust on the bed settles.
© Sagebrush Review I Spring 2006