In the glaring and anemic spring sunlight the twisted ribs of a rusted
walkway float half-submerged in the calm canal—something unseen
still moors them to the mill wall. Further on baseballs circumscribe
arcs of spring—a bluegrey squad of Riverhawks warm up
on their bright pitch. A front loader over in LeLacheur Park
makes mounds in the bullpen. The mighty Merrimack swole
and blue with white caps announcing in advance submerged
stones. The air not warm—the sun trying best it can—but why
give it agency? The earth tilting back on its endless spin
cycle—towards longer caresses for us from a careless star —we stir
like a cat in a closed room—dust drifting down delineating
a golden slant of warm endless possibility. A woman talking
earnestly in my ears on a podcast brings me present: I do not tell
my story in order to be saved. I tell my story because [her voice
breaking] I have been saved. The joy of this gift that I have
been given—that I have gratitude for—makes me
want to share it with other people and be of service.

S.C. Thibodeau lives in Massachusetts. His work has appeared in The Sandy River Review, Super Arrow, and Transcend.