Morning Walk
The acorn woodpecker's Thump on the tree And the owl's hidden hoot Fill my ears as I walk Through forest on a Sun-filled morning Canadian geese calls Sound like laughter As they fly into the...
Issue: <span>March/April 2004</span>
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The acorn woodpecker's
Thump on the tree
And the owl's hidden hoot
Fill my ears as I walk
Through forest on a
Sun-filled morning
Canadian geese calls
Sound like laughter
As they fly into the
Lake with a splash
And swim peacefully
One after the other
Manzanita trees and bushes
Are a deep red-brown
Covered in lichen and moss.
Glynis Hyatt walked blindly down the street. Fragments of shrapnel crunched under her shoes. Glass mixed, making mosaics with the rubble on the ground. The smell of smoke littered the air, thick and foul-smelling.
The reality of war had hit at full blast, and many people were still in shock. The surprise bombings had caused so much trauma and heartbreak.
Alia Waking by Laura Williams McCaffrey;
Clarion Books: New York, 2003; $15
Your lifelong dream dangles before your eyes. You reach for it and almost grasp it, but alas, you still have to watch the baby for your mother and scrub the floors. If there's extra time in between chores, you might find an opportunity to sneak off for a bit and chase that fantasy.
CHAPTER ONE
Byron Jones parked his beat-up, old, black Chevy in the driveway and stared at the house in front of him. All of his hopes and dreams lay before him in this green house with the pale yellow shutters.
"This is what I have been working for," he said to himself, "my own office, my own home."
It was the summer of 1960. Byron was a family doctor.
The smell of newly cut wafted in through open windows. A grain bucket clanged against a stall door like a dull church bell. A black, velvety nose pressed against the bars of a stall and sweet-smelling grain dribbled from whiskered lips. A bay horse came down the aisle, her hooves tapping a tune on the rough cement.
Even as a young child, I had an inclination to watch people. Not in a bad way; I didn't gossip or be judgmental, I just observed. The ways of people interested me greatly.
When I was about six, a new family, the Burkes, moved in beside mine. Just watching them carry their things into the big blue house made me curious.
I remember
Once
By mistake
I ripped a map
It was on my kitchen table
And I was looking for you
Buildings were split in half . . .
And my road
Led to yours
Wouldn't that be great
If it were real?
I'd rip a map
And I'd be right next
To you, again . . .
My friend . . .
My long lost friend
This Saturday morning I slept in. I knew I didn't have to get up for anything except a tennis lesson at one o'clock. When I finally rolled out of bed at eleven, I stumbled downstairs to get breakfast. Today it was hard-boiled eggs and toast. I ate thankfully, for I was hungry, as I often am in the morning. After I had my fill, I wandered upstairs and remembered I had homework.
The soaring red sparkler flew over my head with clouds chasing behind. I gazed up and pondered what it would be like sitting in the Red Comet, wind rushing at your face, an old greasy leather cap on, with goggles bigger than your eyes, and you're just looking ahead feeling so free.
My granddad landed the plane as smoothly as a feather falling. When he was gliding down the engine purred like a cat.
The Sight by David Clement-Davies;
Dutton Books: New York, 2002; $21.99
When I sat down to read The Sight, I was expecting a predictable good-against-evil, weak-against-strong, love-against-hate type story. Boy, was I wrong. As a writer, I find the greatest challenge in writing stories is developing a plot that is unpredictable, unique, and fraught with problems for the characters in order to leav...