Nuthatches arrive mid-morning as part of their daily circuit. I welcome these bright and dedicated arrows as they check and recheck the recesses in redwood bark. How many times have I rummaged here and found nothing? And yet, these loyal seekers find bounty. While I see mostly absences, they tune in to presences that attend shadows. In ample quiet each body is a refillable chamber. They instruct. Keep checking the pulse of a tree. Press onward. Hours later, after my chores are done, I’m reluctant to stray from this language of touch.
is a recent transplant to New Hampshire. Her micro-prose and prose poems have appeared in 100 Word Story, The Ekphrastic Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Mackinaw, Mid-American Review, Moon City Review, and Unbroken. Her latest collection, A House Meant Only for Summer (Red Moon Press, 2023), features haibun and tanka prose. When not writing or making collages, she’s outside exploring the woods and avoiding ticks.
