Lily's Review
Journey in late June:  Sixty miles from home and something on the radio about a flood.  Here, there is no flood, no trickle, no whisper of rain for more than forty days.  Here, the grass crackles, burns at a wink and there's not anything to write about that isn't covered with dust, but for the stars, but for tomorrow and all her different dresses.


Forty-five miles to go and I sing to the River Dolores, bride's child with her hidden smile, wedding flowers in her hair, hint of a secret that summer tossed out. Listen: this is the way of the season here, this is a part of me that I'm telling you about.  Are you there? Are you there?


Mile post thirty two and I couldn't be closer to you if I hovered at the generous lips of the rimrock, if I spoke with the voice of the storm itself and here, even the sky has fires at twilight, soot-capped clouds to keep it under wraps.  I sing, the world sings, we're all dying but yet celebrating beneath this thin blanket life.

We don't know any different.  Or else we just can't help ourselves.


Twenty-three miles and maybe this was where the town used to be and maybe this is the yesterday of me, the insistence that certain things pass by in dimlights, in silence, in the way that they should go.  Or maybe it's a bit of the water game we used to play - Marco...  Marco...


Ten miles is like ten minutes, is a bit too quick when I've decided I could drive like this forever.  I'm wondering what you'd say to that - if you'd have me skip the turn, have me end up on some other street, at some other home, some other window.  Wishing I was here because I'd already wished you were there.  Wishing we were both anywhere new.  Prime property on the Wolf Road, Milky Way City with neither a fire or flood or any other however.  I wonder.


These are my fences, these are my trees.  This is the slowest, winding drive in the journey of me, the never ending everything I keep telling you about; this is my flame-claimed sky and the dust-strewn groove, the crook of an arm where I lay my head just before you reach, pick the flowers from my hair.  Just before you return the smile.

Polo.


*

I'd like to thank my editorial staff, as always, for all of their hard work.  Thanks, also, to the contributors of this issue.  And if you're reading this, thanks to you, too... whoever you are.

Til next time,
Susan
Lily Editor



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