I drive this road alone as it tumbles out before me, golden headlights in the Adirondack dark,
only a small passage amid the trees running deep as death; their summer-camp dreams and
blazing sun memories locked up for the season. Small pockets of Christmas lights, the glimmer
of a decorated pine down a long driveway, a picture window lit by an angel, remind me— all still
exists— even as the next lake village and the next greet me with the solid hand of darkness. I am
not pomegranate-ready for winter’s six months, wish for more than the rattle of my car’s heater
and this icy water silence. Sharp change if a deer’s path meets mine. That could be my future, an
old carcass along the concrete shoulder. I race by, climb toward Tupper, then swoop into the
valley, Hannawa Falls, home.

/

Beth Konkoski is a writer and high school English teacher living in Northern Virginia with her husband and two mostly grown kids. Her heart lived in the Adirondacks where she grew up and learned to write. Her work has appeared in journals such as: The American Journal of Poetry, The Potomac Review, and Gargoyle. She has two chapbooks of poetry, “Noticing the Splash” with BoneWorld Press and “Water Shedding” with Finishing Line Press.