Image by Ignacio Leonardo

I knew by the shapes of the trees
we were almost home.
I wasn’t sleeping.

We had reached the spot
where the trees changed and I heard them say
I was sleeping.

Flying and falling were my only dreams then
and they just repeated
but in different ways.

One day it would all make sense.
I stayed quiet and waited.
Sometimes I lied.

I kept watching those trees.
We were back on our street again. For awhile
at least, I would keep on pretending;
I would let myself
be carried inside.


Emily Darrell just received her Master’s in journalism from the University of Montana and recently spent a year in Romania teaching journalism at The University of Bucharest.

Back To Issue #22

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