Presence 77

jazz piano
the river glitters
with gulls

— Caroline Skanne

moon landing
wood ducks touch down
one by one

— Ron C. Moss


afloat
on a dark world
black swan’s wake

— Owen Bullock


an unruffled
afternoon
we sit together
deep in the drone
of bumble bees

— Colin Oliver

summer’s end
the wren and its chatter
are gone . . .
how long was it before
I heard the silence?

— Curt Pawlisch

French Quarter

Just when you think it can’t get any muggier, the afternoon rain hits. Street musicians pull out their umbrellas and tourists huddle under the awnings. Tucking into those little shops that have souvenirs and recipe books featuring all of mama’s greatest creole creations. Although no one’s mama actually cooks like that. Not that she would tell you what all her secret ingredients are. Nothing waits out the rain better than finding yourself at that coffee shop with beignets and café au lait. When the rain stops and the jazz starts back up and Jackson Square has been rinsed clean, we all move out of our hiding places. Back into the thick summer air of New Orleans.

                                             funeral procession
                                             the constant wailing
                                             of a trombone

— Bryan Rickert