Sentinel

He is late today, by a full ten minutes. Perhaps he is AWOL, has joined a new outfit, been assigned somewhere else.

But I know that this is just pure speculation on my part. He will arrive, he always does,

just as morning fog parts like a curtain and announces the presence of speckled ocean. And then they show

up, the whole squadron flying in unison, white in the sun, big bodied, ready to plunge

like bombardiers. But he veers off at the last second, flies off on his own, due east to the last

column, chases off the singular gull that has roosted on his private spot. Then, he assumes his post.

Let the others work, dive again and again for their food. From his lookout he can see the whole pier, already full with people,

their lines submerged into dark water. All he will have

to do now for the rest of morning is remain here, watch and wait, gullet empty,

pouch ready to gorge on what these people leave behind as they fillet

their catch, never knowing how they always leave him the best parts as they walk

to their cars with what will become evening supper, now submerged deep in their pails.

Richard Luftig

Nothing Hallowed

A candle burns top to bottom nothing special nothing holy nothing sacred nothing hallowed wick consumed wax ingested combustion started light invented angels summoned vespers chanted zeal ignited hearts decanted shadows jumping darkness fleeing like a tiger in whose face a torch is thrust consecrated light illumines everything within its reach

Paul Smith

Paul Smith is a civil engineer who works in construction and likes writing poetry and fiction. His works have been published in Convergence, Homestead Review, Literary Orphans and other magazines.