By Travis Stephens
Walk amid the darkened fallen trees that jackstraw the mountain as if a volcano had blown, a lash of fast air after centuries of calm. Walk slow. This is the place where the lake used to be, a cool silent pool where the deer were not afraid. This is the place where they once met, chairs set beneath trees though the chiefs preferred to sit upon ground, they met to touch pen to paper, to say aloud “this we will do now”. Two of three did not live past autumn and the remaining one was recalled to the East. This is where, then. Sun now lights a branch, a frond of leaves. Sit with me amid the ashes.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. A graduate of University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, recent credits include: Gyroscope Review, 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Raven’s Perch, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Gravitas and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.