The Quiet Country

The Gaspé wind smells of salt and clover. Hélène tends her hives in a beekeeper's veil, humming something her mother used to sing in a language the neighbors assume is Polish. It isn't.

In Connecticut, a station wagon still sits in a library parking lot. A crossword lies folded on the passenger seat, one phrase circled in pencil. No one ever solves it.

The heron flies at dusk — but not for her. Not anymore.