Liam Crestwood is a writer from Northern Utah living along the Wasatch Front. His work has previously been seen in Slamchop.
The lake locked island ablaze
the night before, now pushing
ashes along the lake’s waves.
The rivers leading out turn black
with soot, twigs, and wildlife.
A bird, blended with burnt branches,
barely alive floats by.
The only color left, the only way
to see her, is her pale blue eye.
An unblinking dot in the dark.
There’s no wings left,
feathers swallowed in flames,
leaving long black fingers
reaching for help. Want to
hold her, to heal her, but
just brushing her blackened body
would crumble everything to ash.
Her siblings soar overhead,
lucky to escape her fate,
lucky enough to have plumage
to spare (though they won’t,)
lucky to live.
Drowning could sound like a dream.
Instead she floats, her featherless
attempts to fly push her downstream.
-Featured in Issue #1 of the Rosette.
Autumn’s evening frost covers the lawn,
hidden like glass shards from a busted
camera lens which otherwise captured,
immortalized the moment. Each speck
an uncertain omen of snow to come soon.
Not tonight, skies clear of accumulating clouds.
Porch lights polluting sight creates a starless scene
leaving satellites as heaven’s sole celestial bodies
passing across from one horizon to another.
A day will come when debris will build a shield,
each satellite stopping each other’s path, and
heaven’s shifting view becomes metal
bumping back and forth. Will anyone in the city
notice none of the stars’ lights make it to earth?
Frost still sparkles—stealing from the porch lights,
a private galaxy waiting to be mowed and weeded
When the last star fades from earth’s sight
those innumerable lights will still shine on,
resurrected in-between grass blades
forming new found constellations created
through myths not yet manufactured.
Each sparkle a piece of what once was above,
before satellites blocked us into our world
serving past the people who built them.