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. |
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.