Poetry by Travis Stephens
Frog noise
cloud breath, dew’s silent
steady approach, The dog
snuffles, stretches long legs
out of her bed, yawns.
Potato plants
push back against the dirt
as corn reaches for
the smallest bats who
dash from pond
to tree line
but never near the road.
Who has seen
a bat hit by a car?
Radar love.
Traffic noise
beyond the range of
headlights so only the
sloppy snarl of tires on
asphalt
A quiet after.
A trickle of water,
sigh and sorrow.
Maybe an airliner, maybe not,
and all those faraway
stars.
Last item, the march of
morning from stage left.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. A University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire alumni, recent credits include: Gyroscope Review, 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, GRIFFEL , Offcourse , Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Gravitas and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Visit him at: zolothstephenswriters.com
