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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 1, March 2014


Marjorie Buettner
Chicago City, Minnesota, USA

Margaret Dornaus
Ozark, Arkansas, USA

Circadian Rhythm

In my dream you are cutting cucumbers in the kitchen and you ask if I would like some and I taste them sudden in my mouth with onions and cream and it gives me back the sense of summer with the luxurious scent of green grass and the thick buzzing of lazy bees heavy with pollen and you, like a gypsy dancer, skin golden brown, singing in the kitchen all the while for me.

All Hallow's Eve
the circadian rhythm
of my mind's eye

When I spot the eagle on my drive home, it takes me a minute to absorb its majesty: the massive span of its wings as it hovers above the familiar two-lane road I travel each day; the sheen of white tail feathers spread into a glistening robe; the arc of its unhurried flight as it searches for prey. It is encumbered by nothing more than the will to live, the will to survive.

Is this the message you've been sent to give me?

abandoned nest
the warmth of the sun
in its hollow



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