Mary’s Point

MARY’S POINT

“If we stay much longer,

we won’t go back

together.”

Mary shifted,

and gravel whispered

into the gorge.

The river below

took it

without comment.

Joe sat beside her,

unsteady—

not from the height,

but from

something else.

Mary

was not usually

like this.

She had opinions,

but kept them folded

in her lap.

“You’ll never marry her,”

she said.

“She doesn’t love you.”

Then, softer—

“I just know it.”

He reached—

shoulder,

forehead—

his hands clumsy,

cold.

“Let’s go back,”

he said.

“We can talk there.”

Mary smiled.

Lightly.

“That’s not it.

I’m just worried about you.”

He rose,

reeled back

into the trees,

trying to remember

how to breathe.

The light had shifted.

Pines held their breath.

Sap and sun and

the chirr of insects

filled the silence

she left.

“This is the worst time

to fight with your best friend,”

he thought.

Early summer

dried the sweat

from his brow.

SCOTT SIMPSON

The vertigo passed.

He saw

the slope,

the edge,

the fall

he’d made.

“I’ll tell her.

I love Susan.

That’s all.

She’ll understand.

We’re friends.”

When he returned,

she was gone.

The river moved

without pause

beneath the ledge

where their feet

had once hung—

insisting

nothing had happened

there.

A HUSH BETWEEN SEASONS