Greenville, SC — Peatsmoke

Look, when the Heron flew over the bridge and I felt its big wing a foot from my face, I had to check my phone to see what it meant. I don’t know how to start a sourdough loaf any more than I can shoot my dinner. But when I’ve run out of another day staring at the river, I think to myself I’d like to wind through the woods and follow my loose threads home until I die a pile of yarn under a pine. A river washing away its sides. But by the time I turn the key in the lock, I’m bored of tomorrow.

The Heron will appear when you are in-between. Standing, still, at the precipice of change. Long legs spindle either side of the river’s edge—a cartographer’s compass measuring the split.

Look, it’s been a year trapped in the trees. Set up camp in a house with no roots. Thin carpet and an old stove. Wound a path each morning along a lazy river. Tried to keep it together, but I unspooled just the same. Watched the current lap the rock’s face, the stick knock at the bend until it broke. Looked up and named birds I couldn’t call. Saw nothing worth reporting. Wrote it all down on rips of paper. Tossed them to the wind. Dogwood petals on a late spring breeze.

The Great Blue Heron usually stands, still, at the shoreline—needs the land as much as the water.

Look, I’d love to be the type of person to go out without a hat in the middle of a summer storm. But once, halfway home, the sky caved. Collapsed roof of a living room blanket fort. And everything swam. Had to stop under a shelter to sit out the water. Perched on a picnic table without a plate. Watched the empty grill become a fountain. Watched the puddle become a lake and river i
ts way back to the stream. Couldn’t stop watching.

Any land. Any water. As happy to touch down along the open coast as it is a backyard pond.

Look, sometimes I think I could live under the sky. Be watered and dried and not need a hot shower. By the river, you wonder why anybody goes inside. And then you remember. Hot tea from the kettle. Warm blanket on the couch. Most days, it’s impossible to fathom I’m made of the same stuff as the clouds. I try to stand up straight and breathe deep and remember I’m water. But I always end up with the same dirt on my shoes. Footprints through the living room.

Fresh and saltwater marshes, mangrove swamps, flooded meadows, lake edges, shorelines.

Look, here is as good as any other place. In the popcorn ceiling, you can count the stars. On the living room floor, if I close my eyes, I can stretch my limbs to the four corners of the universe. Until the cat licks my cheek and the carpet digs patterns down my back. I can sleep in knots and wake with the light. Leave all the dishes in the sink. The Heron landed by the water. Perched at the edge. When I split, right along the shoreline, I made a mess of it. Scattered bones and a heap of skin. Blood everywhere.

Finally, liquid enough to wash into the stream and lift with the sun. Cloud the horizon as you drive the long way home.

about the author

Brooke Schifano is a writer and educator currently based in Greenville, SC, where she splits her time between a tabby cat and a vining Pothos. Her recent poetry and nonfiction can be found in Salt Hill, Sonora Review, Salamander, and elsewhere.

about the artist

Danielle Sung is a junior at Phillips Exeter Academy in Exeter, New Hampshire. In her spare time, she enjoys creating art, visiting exhibits around the world, studying art history and anthropology. Sung has won recognitions in several art competitions, including winning Gold Medals in the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, being selected as the American Vision and Voices Nominee, and the winner of the 2019 Congressional Art Competition. Sung is currently preparing to major in art with a focus on portraiture and installations.