Poetry

The sunlight crowns her red brown hair
(Its diamonds sparkle as befits a queen).
Shepherding her, the moss and the clover lie
Along the pathway lest she miss a step and dash her foot.
She, with careless grace, there beneath the fruit
And flower-burdened trees, has found
The center of the bower where a gilded finch
Twirls and pirouettes easily, serenading.
The water, cool and pure, has soothed
And bathed his feet. The sky and hills mirror
Green-yellow in the pool, shimmering blue.
He kicks and sends a flying emerald cascade
Into the breeze, his woodland staff in hand,
A painted bird on his shoulder
Below the swaying trees
All rainbow-colored, dancing, rustling wordlessly.
"Cockatoo," just so named, looks right and left.
Alarmed, he launches roughly, painfully cutting his master.
The finch, frightened, falls silent.
Tiny drops of blood stain the clear water.
The man watches as far off clouds gather.
He hurries away, leaving traces in the stream behind him,
Marring the surface. "Where are you!" he calls.
"Eve!"

—John Peterson

Two Birds appeared in issue 8.3.

Sweeney's banjo bends night's campfire glare
While red-lined cape endrapes Jeb's sorrel's mane
As Jine the Cavalry both countertints
His raid late made around a wave of blue
And chorused corporate prayer from Jackson's tents.
Both charm of hall and stab of hell bedew
His gauntlet rest of song and swaggered play
That friezed his pose that acts his part on cue.
"And do I feign the role of cavalier?
Our best Commander bids due all act that fit
Become, by putting on attendant gear
Of what should be, an altarpiece to sit
The throne of turning love, to stead us here."
Rest now, plumed rake of virtue, steely wit.

—Art Livingston

Stuart By Firelight appeared in issue 7.7.