Under the Sycamore Tree
by David Capps
Mosquitos lay their eggs, praying you arise, a cloud of tall grasses of the unmown lawn, form given human shape. Whose branches bend to clear its passage, what mossless arms reach in the summer before fall, when at the height all there is, is love and leafless silence? Dusk’s flared tail feather drifting just because—recalls fledglings to their nest, the stars to their sky, a boy to his house where the gate left open, is always left open.
David Capps is a philosophy professor and writer who lives in New Haven, CT.