PUBLISHED: NAME OF JOURNAL, 00/00/0000

photo: Christopher Luther

It’s not a matter of sneaking. Just skirt the plastic fence, popsicle-orange in a stream of sun. Cross the parking lot, where crows peck at bare sand. Past the rail-bridge and through the bushes, a door of air opens. You walk a footpath¬—gravelly grey— not a road, not brick yellow. Wind is wiggling the syrup river, which roars, or perhaps that’s the highway. Blackberry arms reach from the hedges with bracelets of fat ripe sweetness. All the trumpets on the vine play lavender tunes, while the Great Blue Heron curls his pretzel yogi neck. You would walk forever but cigarette smoke is blowing into your face from the window of a slick white truck and you’re back in a parking lot till next time.