Kathleen Tighe

W O R D S • I D E A S : K A T H L E E N T I G H E

Morning Rain

The dog has stopped suddenly Eyes frozen, intent, Every muscle coiled, ready to spring. "What is it?" I ask. I scan the swaying grasses, the whispering trees, the dune sloping to the lake's edge. Then I see: Two fawns faltering, stumbling along Just behind a doe nibbling leaves as she picks a path among the poplars.

Rain falls softly, a gentle tapping on the leaves underfoot And a drip, drip, dripping all around, From the edge of my slicker's hood, Even off the end of my nose, Blurring the bright green of the woods. But it is early morning And birds are calling, A red-winged blackbird, the scarlet flash of a cardinal, And a mourning dove coos, lamenting the absence of sun.

The dog whuffs, her excitement hardly contained. "Shhh, " I say. They are nearly concealed By the tall grass Almost hidden, but not quite, Their dappled spots too bright against reddish umber coats Even in this dull light And a white flash of their little tails As they mimic the warning from their mother

For she has sensed us now Head lifted Sniffing Eyes searching.

She sees us -- no, she spies the dog Who has moved into a crouch Trembling, ready to lunge. She freezes And her twins do, too. She watches the dog, the dog stares back. For a moment the wood falls silent.

I tug the leash then, just once, And the dog looks up beseeching. "Let's leave them alone, " I urge And I turn. The dog follows, Reluctance in her step, her craning neck As she glances back. The rain falls gently And we find our way home.

Kathleen Tighe is a writer and educator based in Michigan. She writes primarily creative nonfiction, flash fiction, and poetry. Her work has appeared in Still Life, Qua Literary and Fine Arts Magazine, and Writing From the Inside Out. Her passion for traveling has informed her view of our fleeting time on Planet Earth and influences much of her work.