pears fell early, rolled underfoot. Yellowjackets burdened the orchard floor. It was the year of the break-in, the sphinx moth, the year of signs and suspicions. A low hum rose from the earth, tremulous, like a distant jackhammer. No one could hear it over the traffic and shouting, but we all felt nervous as if someone we planned to forget was instead returning home. You set fires for beacons. I hid in a barrel hoping not to be noticed. The green heron perched on the powerline and peered down into the pond.

Bio: Amy Newday