April 2021 - Issue No. 12
Occasional Neighbors
by
Brigitte Whiting
I understand a little bit about wild turkeys. They're on a constant hunt for food, drifting through the neighborhood scrounging what they can. But I don't know how it happens that a few will either be left behind by the flock or leave it. This past fall, I'd walk around the garage and before I even saw them, I'd hear their shrieks and the loud scuttle of their wings. They've remained in my neighborhood all winter, two toms and a hen.
At this point in early March, I view them as neighbors and look for what they're up to. They pick through the sunflower seeds that fall from the birdfeeders, and hunt throughout the yards for anything edible. A couple of times I've accidentally dropped a small chunk of suet and when I looked a short time later, it was gone, presumably snatched by a wild turkey
I try to figure out how close they are to each other. Wild turkeys take turns standing guard, remaining absolutely still for a few minutes before they move again, and that continues with the three. They'll fuss a bit with each other when one has found a good hunting spot. They fend for themselves, but seem to gain a sense of safety from being with the others. If I catch sight of one, I can be quite sure the other two are straggling somewhere not too far away.
About an hour before sunset, the three wander back into the trees, only...
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Women Out To Dinner
by
Luann Lewis
Women step out to dinner.
Just women. Just “the girls.”
Out they go,
in perfume,
fluffy neck scarves,
lipstick, blush.
Out they go,
with purses
stuffed with Kleenex
and more lipstick,
and more blush.
Out they go,
giggling like girls -
talking fast, talking intensely,
talking like girls,
but looking like women.
Out they go,
in skirts and blouses,
pants and tunics, heels and flats,
earrings and necklaces.
Out they go,
in groups and duos,
meeting in entryways,
with laughter and chatter.
Out they go,
with hugs and compliments,
led through restaurants
by ladies in black dresses.
Women step out to dinner,
studying menus, discussing options,
wrinkling noses, shaking heads.
Women step out to dinner,
shunning calories, excusing calories,
welcoming calories, anticipating gluttony.
Women step out to dinner.
Just women. Just “the girls.”
Chuckling guiltily, selecting gleefully.
Women step out to dinner.
Clinking glasses, celebrating women,
celebrating life, laughing with gusto,
sounding like girls.
Women,
devious women, voices lowered.
Dissect an appetizer, dissect a friend.
Women,
discreet women, shaking heads,
pursing lips, share potato skins,
skin a spouse.
Women, tasting dinners,
sighing, “divine!” suddenly quiet,
(only briefly) blissfully eating.
Women step out to dinner.
Napkins wrinkled, split desserts,
swirls of whipped cream,
shaves of chocolate, steaming coffee.
Happy, “Ahhhhs.”
Women step out to dinner.
Swearing loyalty, hugging softly,
going to cars, getting sleepy,
driving home and talking to women…
about the other women
who stepped out to dinner.
BIO:Luann Lewis is a Chicago native who has spent...
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Emerson
by
Paul K. McWilliams
He hurts, body, mind, and soul. Death has made its introduction and he has given it a knowing nod. At this moment he’s in a hospice unit. The head of his bed is elevated and he’s in the consoling company of his dog, Emerson. The dog proved quickly to be polite and calm company, such that a special grant was extended, allowing the man’s precious pet to see him through. Like many such creatures, Emerson is, and has long been, a consistent and intuitive conduit of unreserved love for which the man has been ever grateful. Emerson is an all-black, curly-haired, miniature labradoodle and he knows of no other means than that of love and affection. These co-joined souls, this man and dog, they have been daily companions for better than ten years.
Presently, the man’s right hand is giving absent-minded caress to Emerson. The man is gazing out the light-filled window, looking upon a resplendent maple tree in its autumn glory. After a deep breath followed by a sincere sigh, the man reports to his now alert dog these whispered words, “The only way to have a friend is to be one. Ralph Waldo may have said it, but you, you my dear little Emerson, you live it.” It’s obvious to the man, it’s apparent in his dog’s extra careful manner; he can see the dog knows; he can see his loving friend senses both life and death are at hand.
The man now settles his head...
