Looking East by Catherine Grossman On the deck above Cayuga Lake awake before my family and the dawn, on hand for the sun’s blaring rise. It’s done now, nothing large enough as a cloud to get in its way— a terrifying white gold track blazes across calm water— reprimanding me— you are far from home. I am, but that’s a fool’s trail built for water spiders. I’ll stay here and track what’s left of me after hours of not breathing—that is, I’m not sure of anything. The wind is stirring. Maybe I am this rented house, its dusty corners and mementos hanging on walls. I have no memories. The water is blue, black and lemon green where weeds show through. The wake is a meter-less lento, licking the shore, the pace of a tongue on an ice cream cone. Now, tender skins of summer leaves— sweet cymbals, again and again, twisting in their places, playing continuo, continuo—a woodwind now, a vireo. Bio: Catherine G...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.