photo by Rebecca Johnston

Three Line Tales

Prophecy

I hadn’t jogged since pneumonia swamped my body so I took my favorite trail through the woods toward the pond, halting immediately at the sight: a white buck alerted to my approach stood, his breath opaque in the morning chill.

“Few of us have seen the white buck, Aponi, and to see one is to see the future,” Grandmother’s words echoed.

Doubts over my vote on the Hennessey Dam vanished—flooding the valley would remove all of this: my heritage, my roots, this forest, my pond.

10/2/2016 (2)

S. Darlington