Sunday

By Tracy DeBrincat

The hawk had a squirrel up in our eucalyptus.
Mockingbirds dove at them, persistent, fluttering, loud.
Sudden chaos in my favorite tree.

"Get the camera," you said. "This is nature up close."
"This is bullshit," I muttered. But I moved slowly 
Toward the cabinet so as not to disturb the ruckus.

It had been one of those days — perfect and common —
Until this. We'd slept soundly and woken smiling.
No earthquakes, hauntings, or nightmares to report.

We drank coffee by the window,
Crossed our ankles and foolishly 
Fell in love with towns in the distance.

The crossword delivered its usual madness:
A river up, something Latin down. Nascent 
Thoughts of returning to bed. Then the screams.

We rushed to the window. 
Was there blood? Piles of guts?
Such things we could no longer stomach on the news.

Not allowed on the weekends, we vowed.
This was our doctrine of peace, perhaps vanity,
To maintain a cocoon undisturbed.

Our camera zoomed in on the hawk's bloodless eye,
The squirrel's matted fur,
The mockingbirds, brazen with argument.

We hadn't held hands for such a long time.


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About Tracy DeBrincat

Tracy DeBrincat is the author of the new story collection, Troglodyte, which was awarded the 2012 Elixir Prize and will be published in January 2014, and the prize-winning novel Hollywood Buckaroo (Black Lawrence Press/2012). Her short stories and poetry have appeared in journals from Another Chicago Magazine to Zyzzyva. She also authors the blog Bigfoot Lives! & Other Literary Adventures. San Francisco is her hometown, but she loves living in Los Angeles, where she is a freelance creative advertising consultant.

One Comment

  1. Cindy Renie
    Posted June 2013 at 10:00 am | Permalink

    wonderful Tracey!! thank you.

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