Current Issue About Editorial Note Archives Submitting Links		Birthday Note by J. P. Dancing Bear   A savant provides the exact number of minutes to a life. It is November and the Dryads are clinging to their leaves. I feel myself thinner than before. Beneath the darkening sky my own light is warmer. My habits are shed the way a cocoon of an overcoat is removed to reveal flannel wings. Further disrobing. I emerge from the layers, as someone I nearly knew. A new version of my old self standing at the anniversary party; bare, in a room full of meteorologists - unafraid of the weather.   Next Poem
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