Mojave Vipassanā A pair of juvenile ravens swoop and fall along the fence. One wipes its beak with vigor against the top rail, the other tilts up its head, and gives gurgling croaks in a rising pitch. I’m in my front yard and happen to drop a rake on the concrete driveway. They should startle but no, they just carry on, as desert wind kicks up, shuffles their feathers. They glisten in the high sun, oily purple-black, and wings are spread to catch the hot breeze. There are shadows somewhere, but not here. Here we are featured in full light, going about the minor business of our lives, not waiting for something to happen, not locked in drama, natural or otherwise— just the laze of afternoon flowing through, presence, lone moment, radiant particle suspended in space.
Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including The Cortland Review, Gargoyle, Monkeybicycle, Sheila-Na-Gig, ONE ART, Third Wednesday, Heron Tree, and Heavy Feather Review. Author of three books, and a multiple-time Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominee, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses. His latest collection goes from apparition to publication early 2024.
Amethyst Review 