by Beth W. Patterson
Why is the flora on my family’s land suddenly so much thicker?
The sharp cry of a baby freezes me in my tracks. If someone abandoned a child, I have to make sure that it doesn’t die.
Wriggling on a bed of ferns is an infant girl. But the most unsettling thing is the birthmark on her cheek. It’s identical to my own.
The figure stepping into the clearing could pass for an old photograph of my mother as a young woman.
My eyes are reflected in her dagger. Her wings unfold as she croons, “Now the cycle begins again.”
Beth W. Patterson