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A MIDWINTER MOVE NORTHWEST, BY MARIA MCLEOD


Birds hide, the sky goes blank, gray
slate, a milky chalkboard. We erase

what was, start over, immigrants
rewriting ourselves in an icy rain,

which falls continuous, drowning
the noise our pasts produce.

Conifers crowd our vision, pin
the sky in place, shielding us

from a looming fog.
The future is a seedling, just now

hitting ground. It arrives dazed
and out of season, hoping to take hold
​
of the earth, to inhabit one small crevice
of what, to our eyes, appears infinite.



NEXT
Maria McLeod writes and publishes poetry, fiction, and monologues. Honors include three Pushcart Prize nominations, the Indiana Review Poetry Prize, and the Robert J. DeMott Short Prose Prize. She’s been published in literary journals such as Puerto Del Sol, Painted Bride Quarterly, Harpoon Review, Critical Quarterly, The Interpreter’s House, Crab Orchard Review, The Brooklyn Rail, and others. McLeod is a professor of journalism for Western Washington University. Originally from the Detroit area, she currently resides in Bellingham, Washington. 
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