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Spadina Literary Review  —  edition 27 page 18


Pioneer in Late Capitalism

by Michael Lithgow

I am uneasy after a rain. The night air
is heavy and still. There is no moon.

From where I sit on this old porch I can see cars
pushing cones of light on the road through haze

and a smattering of fireflies flickering at a black boundary
of trees beyond the farmhouse. Even the frogs

are subdued, only a few thrumming in their throats
like badly tuned banjos. The forest

fills with remnant sounds of a storm falling
through canopy. A loon’s moan reminds me

of an abyss. I know nothing here, and fear
is an unwelcome companion, an interrogation.

I wonder if wet ground softens a predator’s approach,
if something is moving in the trees over there,

why I feel so helpless. What aberration has left this play
of shadows for me to spoil in.