Steve Klepetar
Thinking of Nothing Thinking of nothing, I remember my father’s name, how he spoke it once in the desert where we camped, nearly blind with heat and white sand. All around our tent, syllables echoed and wind swirled our fire to new life. His hands, dark with shadow, drew patterns in the air, alphabet of sighs. I held my breath in a shower of sparks. His green eyes shifted and spoke. Already I could see he would leave, his direction clear, strong legs carrying him away toward the valley of caves. All night, bats streamed overhead, and in the darkness waters tumbled and roared like some forgotten sea.
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