Flight

Now all I hear is my own hum so turn again to the window where a broken line of parked cars dots the whitening sidewalk, as the sun englobes the street in crisp detail and vivifies the skeletal oaks that scratch against the sky, implying the chimes of birds about to arrive. I lean against my window, note the dust motes pillowed on the glass like a moleculed yawn, so grab a rag and spot, on the ledge, two piebald pigeons strutting and pulsing back and forth as they peck along the sill in sync.

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geometries of spring

Nora CulikĀ is a Michigan native who loves strange poetry, mathematics, and bad puns. Her fiction has previously appeared in The Journal of Humanistic Mathematics. geometries of springĀ  the first warm day of spring. the quilt my aunt made me clings to the ground as the breeze tries to make it fly. even the sidewalk seems […]

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