Photo by Lorena Preda on Unsplash
by Jeff Friedman
Yesterday, the leaves glowed and the wind barely whispered, and the dog’s pointy ears perked as though it had discovered a trove of treats or heard the crows reading the guts of a dead animal. Yesterday, the sun filled the world with warmth, and yellow suffused the rooms of our house. But today, the sun is distant and icy. The leaves are gone. The wind shouts into my ears, and acorns drum the metal roof. And in every room, something is missing.
JEFF FRIEDMAN has published eleven collections of poetry and prose. His work has appeared in American Poetry Review, five successive times in Best Microfiction, and in The New Republic. He has received an NEA Literature Translation Fellowship and numerous other awards.
