And down the road I look

at Winchester on the Severn, the setting

star glaring amber as ochre-sweet


honey spoils with jaundiced age

in November.  I stand on the hill

quietly knowing my life


will be unusual, different from how

(and now) it was then.  Déjà vu―

my wood-shingled boyhood


home, the mint patch and Pines Park,

ghosts of the elm trees which met

overhead when Rt. 2 was B&A.


When dusk enfolds the arbor, mourning

doves sense the mist thinning.  No

significance or scaffold in mind:


just a fouling wood and winter

looming in labor, heaped on planks

of limp, listless light.


by Zane Anthony


Zane is a senior at Middlebury College, studying architecture and biology. Zane’s writing has appeared in The New Yorker, The Star Democrat, Middlebury Magazine, Sweatervest, and Zenith Magazine, and is forthcoming in other journals.


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