256. Dawn, Sunday April 14

The spoon
Against the table.
The pan
Against the sink: sound
Rang, as if within
A giant goblet, crystalline
In vibrant air.
No brittle weed or twig
Stirred in a breeze.
The sand dunes feathered out
From porch to field,
And silky, took
A rippled sheen.

No wind:
She squinted
At the bluest sky.
Already bright!
If all the hens weren’t
Dead, thought Riah,
I’d make tracks to
Check them: look out
For that blood-red wildness
In their eye.
Only tiny field-birds
Had stayed on,
Small flocks of sparrows–
But now, where
Were they?

And where–she searched–
A cloud, to gauge
Some movement in the air?
Riah scanned: no
Sightings in the distance,
No clue left,
Nor sign
To prompt a guess
Or grim prediction. So,
All that was left–
The day itself.
She felt relief.
No tomorrow, only
Daybreak, warmth, and light….
“If it’s too good
To be true–it ain’t,”
Louise had warned her.

Riah smiled.
I could do wash, she thought.
Put a line out, string
A row of clothes, fresh,
Sit and wait–
They’d dry in a wink.
It would be fun.

She could smell it,
Clean sheets,
And the sun.

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