by Greta Igl
The rain changed into ice while we slept, darkening roads and glazing branches. Today, the harried world minces, arms out, chips at windshields. Traffic scurries, fouls, careens into ditches.
From below, I listen as the wind slips through a tree’s slick fingers. No rush, no trumpets, just a whisper as a silver maple stretches beyond her icy sheaths. My heart swells. Fetters break. The breeze ebbs, then stills. Liberated, the frail, free branches sway. How grateful I am to have heard their rapture.
Greta Igl’s short fiction has been published by numerous literary magazines and anthologies, including Every Day Fiction, Boston Literary Magazine, Falling Star Magazine, and Word Riot. She lives in southeast Wisconsin with her husband and two children.