Near the depot. Black plumes escape and dissipate, like night-bats. Remember that anniversary when we stumbled across a dead fox on our hike? An auspice? In Indiana, a man with a cigarette habitually tucked behind both ears said, “The kismet control has a lotta knobs.” I’ve always loved candles because they have ceilings. And what’s felt can melt. We’re here in front of orange skies always thinking about tomorrow’s sunset. Stop-motion apocalypse with its hole-ridden mosquito nets. Everyone’s glassed over. Pre-programmed. When I dream, my sons’ eyes look different. They shift and stare, like passing time. Then red-tailed hawks swoop and swirl — cloud-grifting, merciless. When I say “rattled” the word just barely makes it past my lips. Somewhere over quiet rural America, a piece of a turbine propeller flutters out of a flatcar’s vice. A perfect, determined bird comes unfurled. There is only so much light.

KG Newman is a sportswriter for The Denver Post. His first five poetry collections are available on Amazon. The Arizona State University alum is on Twitter @KyleNewmanDP and more info and writing can be found at kgnewman.com. He is the poetry editor of Hidden Peak Press and he lives in Hidden Village, Colorado, with his wife and three kids.