DEATH-TO-THE-DRIFT HOUSE​



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     It was inevitable that Caroline undid the tether holding the house to the sea's shore, letting the currents finally pull it along further and further out.  The people could not remember a time when the house had not been there, bobbing up and down in the lap of waves, its boards slowly warping in and up making the house slimmer and taller.  The people could not remember a time when Caroline had not been there too—the old woman shuffling out the front door with her bag tossed over her shoulder, going to the market where she would sell fish and shells.  She always had the biggest fish, the most tasty and wholesome—she always had the prettiest shells, striped conches, the most styled and ribbed cockles, beautiful delicate welks.​

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     The people remember when the moon was at its fullest and the tides pushed their pullest, and Caroline would light every light in all her house.  She would play music from records that the people didn't know still lived.  She would dance and sing on her balcony, surrounded by a host of cats and dogs which she kept.  They would bark and yip and purr with her, she would sing, they would pant and lick their lips and fur, and she would sing and sing and sing.  The moon would hum, the stars would glisten brightly in the sky.​

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     But the people didn’t understand the drift-house.  It had always been there, but it could not remain forever.  It out maneuvering them with its tall and slim warped shape, out fishing them with magic and with tricks, casting spells with nets as it drifted over schools of fish.  The people forgot Caroline and her fish and shells—it was the house's fault, the drift-house must be destroyed—so they came with torches and with fish hooks, with fishing poles and wooden oars, with iron weights and salty nets, with voices raised and curses flying—but Caroline had already undone the tether, her house winking at them in the distant sea, as she stood on its balcony waving to them, Goodbye.







STARGAZING​

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​Copernicus turns his neck around, craning at an impossible angle, staring at the harvest moon as its brilliance deepens the blackness of the sky.  The stars poke shallow holes in the great black blanket, and the moon reflects a golden yellow that would make greedy kings lick their lips with anticipation at such a harvest of gold.  Copernicus shifts his weight.  The moon is a giant eye in the nighttime sky, looming over all the earth, watching and watching as a silent illuminating judge.  Copernicus is aware of the trees shifting their weight too, their leaves straining to cover their branches of naked bark, their roots digging deep into the earth to keep them stable and from running away.  The tea cup set on Copernicus' head has painted flowers decorating its sides, which conceal the porcelain—Copernicus thinks that maybe the moon can't see him through the teacup.  He ruffles his feathers, shifts his weight again, hesitantly peering through the cloud of leaves between him and the brilliant moon.  Other owls were out tonight, in full sight of the moon's watchful eye recording everything that moves—but Copernicus remain clutching his walnut tree limb, his old wings aching from remaining still so as not to be noticed.  His neck rotates slowly around again, hiding under the tea cup, staring out from under its rim at the glowing orb in the sky which his mother always told him was his friend which lit the way at night—but surely a friend can turn a blind eye, at least sometimes.