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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 4, December 2013

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Francis Masat
Key West, Florida, USA


At the Last

I know the meaning and longing, the looking up for rain when there is none, day after day. The first raindrops raise dust, wet the air with the smell of earth, and life renews. Toad, though, centered at the bottom of a large round pipe set on end, sits still. Dead still, desiccated still, staring up. I see that however it got in, it had no chance of getting out. Still, the cloudless nights must have been spectacular—like lying in a deep hole at night and looking up, and being awed by all the bright and extra stars you see. A view repeated night after night in Toad’s life. I have always wondered, though, if Toad, at the last, longing and looking up, wondered about its circle of life as it watched its last star. I know my father did, and I tipped the pipe on its side.

clear night—
one firefly among the stars
. . . and then another

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