A Night’s Movement

Stephanie Plummer​

The white crane of platitude swooped from the sky. Greetings to the white gowns and colonial

watchmen below. Wistful dreams sleep in featherbeds and an unseen ghost alongside. They

both squeeze yeasty grapes into flour and pile bread in my arms. I, later, cracked the bread

and heard whistles. They had traveled far, harvesting ears as they went. Now, sounding thin,

they crawled along the crust, leaving behind the dense, yet evaporative crumb. I think I

became something else, because I could no longer hear the trees, the dreams, the ghosts, the

grapes, or the bread. I don’t wake here, but also, I don’t sleep.