adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, April 20, 2008


'A bear's been here,' he said,
pointing to the torn pine,
but even at eight I knew
enough to suspect my brother
of having snuck up here,
sometime before I woke,
and using his hatchet. Still,
I kept a watchful eye
as we climbed slowly, the path
growing steeper among
the trees, up to the cliffs,
the sandstone terraces,
the vultures' apartment house.
I would watch them from
my wood-framed window, the little
bedroom at the back
of the farmhouse, leaning
out to see them rise,
soar from the rocky ledges,
into the summer sky.
You couldn't really see them
from the top of the cliffs,
though, even if one
was foolish enough -- or had
a negligent brother -- to edge
out to the edge and look
over. No doubt it wasn't
as far down as I
remember but it would
have broken my eight-year old
neck, I'm sure. The vultures
would surely have approved.

Stephen Brooke ©2008

A bit of departure, I suppose, though only a bit. I've been trying to write some stuff lately that recalled some of my childhood memories of life in the Hocking Hills of south-western Ohio. Hardly a polished (nor even finished) piece.

Btw, the Spring issue of Peripheral Vision is now online and ready to read. Maybe I should add a guest book or comment form to see what folks think...or maybe I'd rather not know!

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