His Midnight Flight
by John M. Davis

piled up
against our house;
a black blizzard blanketed the farm.
Upstairs, my sister and I watched the barn,
its cavernous mouth thrown open:

light set against a gathering wind,
as whistling rose against battered boards.
Mother’s pacing and creaking wooden floors
fed our fears, kept us from sleep.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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