A city boy, I was used to potholes
filled with rainwater. But this was Durham
New Hampshire. A single crow
splashed like a kid in a plastic
pool. He went under, came up,
spreading his sparkling wings. I stood
stupefied like someone watching
Christ go by on a donkey. In the middle
of Mill Road, a deer’s half-
devoured face gaped. I cleared
my throat. Wind shuddered birches
and maples. Crow gave me a look,
pushed up his razor beak—lifting
again into the cloud-clogged sky.
Brian Patrick Heston grew up in Philadelphia Pennsylvania. He has an MFA from George Mason University and also a Master?s in English and Poetry from the University of New Hampshire. His work has appeared in Pennsylvania English, Confrontation, Slipstream, Cake Train, Poetry Southeast, West Branch, Many Mountains Moving, The Bitter Oleander, and is upcoming in Gargoyle. He currently teaches at the Art Institute of Washington and Marymount University in Arlington Virginia.