By: Anthony Clemons
Blizzardous squalls appear
on the break of Fall’s horizon.
Gusts of disorder surround us.
I’ve listed what’s needed—
No trifles, just essentials—
For the looming hours
of howling rage.
The streets are all empty.
It’s six o’clock—
A time of inversion
For the prairie village.
No children play outside as
Stillness replaces the cadence
Of early evening sounds.
The sun breaks off
Into the visible horizon.
Minor light retreats
With eastward shadows
Covering yellowed zoysia.
The cold fronts its intent
hazing the distance
a dusky concert of blindness.
The haunting unconsciousness
Of an empty farm town
Besieged by ethereal scents
of deadened moisture
Is a cue to outrun the northern
Religion of season’s end.
But the streets are all empty.
The shops are all closed.
And the placid town is taken.
Anthony Clemons is an Appalachian writer and poet. He holds an M.F.A. in Nonfiction Writing from Goucher College and degrees in education from Columbia University. His words appear in Harvard Review, Hippocampus Magazine, The Daily Drunk, Northern Appalachian Review, Silver Rose Magazine, and elsewhere. You can follow him on Twitter and IG @anthonycclemons.
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