By Matthew Isaac Sobin
There is a lone blue heron. She steps high through blooming algae. I am alone. Or not. It is one hundred and three degrees. If you were near there would still be a wall between us. A thick wall. A dragonfly reminds me of decades ago. A tarantula hawk reminds me there are worse things than death. Worse things. I am scared. Of what. Of all the yellow grass. It is not wheat. Not wheat. A rattlesnake might live. Might. Cattle can live. Live. A dragonfly reminds me. Offers an echo. Constant. There is an echo of what a gun does. Once more. More. I think I am far from the gun. Maybe ten miles. Swiftly through the heat. It comes from where they preserve animals. Without wind. How far from the shot before the echo isn’t heard? For how long must we listen before the echo goes unheard?
Matthew Isaac Sobin's (he/him) first book was the science fiction novella The Last Machine in the Solar System. His poems are in or forthcoming from The Lumiere Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Midway Journal, and MAYDAY Magazine. He received an MFA from California College of the Arts. You may find him selling books at Books on B in Hayward, California. He lives and writes with his wife and two dogs. @WriterMattIsaac