Ana Reisens

The Arrival 

Somehow the grass. Somehow the thistles, the budding white husks, the yellow-capped finches tugging at the grass and tumbling into the dusk. Somehow the cicadas, the fingerprints of yesterday’s rain, the red breaths of dust lifting beneath the windmills of the locusts. Somehow the stones, the gravel rinsed with gold, the careful trails of ants carrying away the crumbs of day. Somehow the trees, their branches bent with doves, how we all hold our breath as the wet lamb, trembling, stands. 

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