Fly Over

 

A sun-filled mid-summer morning.

 Excessive branches thanks to rain,

Time to trim.

That sun in her eyes.

Sweat on face.

She holds the ladder.

He’s well up, hidden among  the leafy branches.

Then, a scream.

“El senor cayo!”

(“Your man fell!”)

Yes, he had;

He’d flown over her head onto the sidewalk.

His head hit the curb, his body on the sidewalk.

Dead, immediately.

She never saw his horizontal, then vertical, flight.

Fifty-five years of marriage,

Gone, flown past ….

 

“El senor cayo.”

 

Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, mid-November 2017

 

 

Author: Editor

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