Moths and hummingbirds
Little things. The way airborne swarms of dust find their way, like moths, to
the stale light of mid-afternoon sun filtering through a window, a wobbly pile
of books, a scattering of papers, a lake collecting rain, always remind me of
the summer I spent trying to clean out Maggie Harper’s house and barn. I
was sixteen. The lilacs were still in bloom, but on their way out, swooning
over the backyard fence. Life smelled of cut grass, distant grill fires,
honeysuckle dizzying the air. Summers still felt almost endless, like the slow
roll of a wave, not like the hummingbirds, fluttering, floating, pulsing, then
disappearing before you even notice.
Logan Chace received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing (Poetry) from Hollins University, and currently teaches English and Creative Writing to high school students in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Previous publications include Versal Magazine, The Meadow, Plain Spoke, THAT Literary Review, The Bookends Review, Buddy, Brushfire, Inlandia, Cargoes, and The Hollins Critic. His debut full-length collection of poems, After a Night of Drowning, was published by Kelsay Books in 2022.