FICTION
Stephen O'Connor
ON THE WING
T here was one a t first, or maybe two, leaving cloudy white underfeath–
ers on the lake wa ter, while in the kitch en oak leaves lay like copper
fo il on the coumers, or skidded on ch ance winds whi ch swept the fl oor.
I believe th ere were two. In an y evem , for a time no thing was absem
under the clouds, and then it wasn 't. T here were foo tprints, like one
no te and another, making music. A fores t of footprints, cross ing and
recross ing on the sand , which then' were washed away, by the small
lake waves, by the rain ,
leaving stiff brown feath ers in the weeds and the sandy lakes ide brack.
Feathers where the wa tchdog geese work their bills inLO the mud , where
hot tires hiss along hi ghways tha t vanish inch es below the hor izon .
T he onions and po ta toes have sprouted. The house waits. The dark–
ness qui vers with amicipa tion . T he tired can vas of the lawn furniture
sighs. T he li ght from the lakewa ter leaps through all the wes tern
windows. "Wait till you see the view of the lake! "
says Ava as she and Tim speed away from the city in their orange VW.
T hey are speeding to the summer home of Ava' s childhood . They are
escap ing a crisis. Tim sleeps a ll day Sa turday and Sunday . Ava thinks
she is pregn ant. When they sLOp for gas she vomits in the woman 's
room and does no t tell Tim. The Canadi an geese are gathering a t the
lakes ide.
T he stiff bl ack beaks press ing imo th e mud belong to the geese. First
there were two , or maybe one. Inside of a week there were four, in two
