Flying Island

Letter from the Parking Lot One of the sparrows  near the dumpster  doesn’t see me until I am too close, and he  startles, in a paroxysm of feathers and gravel, propelling the tight fist  of his body skyward,  hurtling, missile-like,  up and over my right  shoulder. And I too am shocked, stopped mid-step, not by this blitzkrieg action, but  by a reflex that rises in me, quick as any  creature’s: to reach up  and block the unseen  arc of this bird’s flight. I find myself wishing for a baseball mitt— me, who hasn’t swung a bat in twenty years, who as a kid was always sent to the outfield, where I could do the least harm—today I want the chance to pluck this line drive out of midair, not for some crumb of redemption, no, this limbic impulse feels deeper. Perhaps it is  that old, original urge: to capture those who have          what we do not, to fix  the moth to the mounting board...

Pilgrims The old zinnias sway in  the garden bed, shoulders  hunched and heads bowed,  their bright garments tattered  and stained from wear, as  the sun shifts its sleepy gaze over the front yard. Still,  every flower is gamely doing  its job, gathering the light  and casting it up at our faces.  Who minds a missing petal like a broken tooth, or a brown smudge amid the gold?  Certainly not the bee, who  nuzzles every blossom, who blesses each splayed and faded  circlet, each discolored array, clasping the hands that are raised to her as she moves, saint-like, among them,  humming imperceptibly as she goes.  Joel Showalter , no longer a Hoosier by residence, has deep ties to Indiana. He was born in Marion and spent the first 24 years of his life in that part of the state. He received his bachelor’s degree in English and writing from Indiana Wesleya...