Delia Owens

diurnal in this lair.

Here’s to’d ya
If I never see’d ya
I never knowed ya.
I see’d ya
I knowed ya
I loved ya,
Forever.

A swamp knows all about death, and doesn’t necessarily define it as tragedy, certainly not a sin.

Among themselves, doves fight as often as hawks.

His dad had told him many times that the definition of a real man is one who cries without shame, reads poetry with his heart, feels opera in his soul, and does what’s necessary to defend a woman.

Maybe they were all going to leave her, one by one down this lane.

When in trouble, just let go.

“Don’t go thinking poetry’s just for sissies. There’s mushy love poems, for sure, but there’s also funny ones, lots about nature, war even. Whole point of it—they make ya feel something.”

The calmness of the boy. She’d never known anybody to speak or move so steady. So sure and easy. Just being near him, and not even that close, had eased her tightness.

She felt a strong pull toward him and a strong push away, the result being stuck firmly in this spot.