by Megan Baxter


The Owl

I found one of the old night birds

in the trees above the sugar house, starving,

it refused the trap-killed mice I brought,

hunter, whistling weight in the dark.


I laid their bodies below the tree

until I came upon him, frozen

knocked from his perch by the wind,

hollowed, hardened by death and frost,

the thick black centers of his eyes

fixed past me, devouring the light.


The Rower

For Hannah, Age 15

You watch morning

come over the mountains

straining at the banks of night

as the shells

set out north up river,

breaking the surface ice of spring.

The hands blister and open

along the oar.

On the shores

we call out

as you pull into the final meter,

glowing with sweat,

blond as summer,

in the long light of sunrise

crowned by dark pine bows.


Megan Baxter works at a 40-acre organic farm in Vermont. A graduate of Interlochen Arts Academy, she completed a BFA in Creative Writing at Goddard College. She has been published in the Georgetown Review and was the runner-up in this year’s Indiana Review ½ 5K contest.

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