Flying Island

87 Jump Shots arc silently in April’s breeze, some bank off the muffled glass, some clatter around and out. My hands drum the ball over cracks, dribbles echo back over unplanted furrows. I am alone in the evening, tentative and  grateful. Dandelions pick up yellow  heads for the storm, hoping the  incoming wind notices them, throws their jagged leaves. The spring gusts knock off my aim, ricochets bounce  longer and air balls blow further into the mulberries. I am shooting to see what number I can reach before one of my sons interrupts me. I hear them playing piano, fingers so quickly plucking out allegro rhythms. Crossover and swish, staccato beats on the concrete, ticking like a metronome. Moments undisturbed vary between mint and vinegar, refreshing then acrid when I know that I cannot xerox these afternoons when they are young, oblivious to how often I miss, just so zealous to chase my rebounds down. Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, a...

New Mercies Unseen by Matthew Miller I Sometimes, when harvesting the garden’s cabbage or kale, you notice a small cottontail cowering, cornered within the grapevine. Though you have no weapon, he does not trust your intention, and burrows out into the thorns. II In a nest beneath blueberry stems, twisted and sparse like a hollowed out spaghetti squash, a kitten shivers, born naked and blind. You stop the spade well above his head, slide over to transplant strawberries. It’s mercy he never sees. III There are sometimes, also, when you are sipping dark coffee at sunrise, eyeing the quiet rabbit. He nips grass nestled in the asphalt cracks. Like a mystic praying alone, he pulls sweet shoots from this rough road, ears up and head bowed low. Bio: Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry—all hoping to create a home. He pretends his classroom at Bethany Christian Schools is a living r...