by Nora Hikari Dallas Reedy Summer of my youthfire, tender liking of my token sun, there is always a close. A canticle of the turning susurrates through the cattails, up the river. Eagles leave and the birch stand empty, waiting without knowing. It comes, she whispers. It comes bellowing, it comes wailing, I cannot bear it she says I cannot hold it she says. The morning is crisp with settling. Into my bones, the snap of autumn waits. Twigs among twigs, antlers left unbloodied