top of page

S. B. Merrow


By August, we yearned for 
something new -- a corona, 
flares to rekindle hope, banana-
shaped visions, another decade. 

Truckers pulled off the highway
to watch the haunting shadows. 
Beyond the shoulder, golfers 
stopped playing their game. 

A woman from California 
gave us special glasses and
talked about her dying father, 
how moving home would mean 

divorce. She declared the event 
over before it was. We walked 
a woodsy path sprinkled with
sun-sickles, the grating cicadas 

mute. Farther south, it turned 
dark -- whippoorwhills woke 
and sang as if morning would 
never come. Then, across the country, 

the brief night of totality passed.
Back in our parallel lanes,
we marvel at the speed
of disappearing dreams.

bottom of page