Voices woke Daniel Tallweather

the morning of the storm.

One, old, repeating words

of some language, ancient, extinct.

The other a boy’s, pleading, Help Me.

There was more. Gnashing,

like wild dogs tearing at a kill.

RAGGED POINT

They rented his head

as he cooked breakfast for Jody,

rode along in the pickup,

hollowing out his son’s conversation

and the noise of the engine.

Now, hunched over his steering column

watching Ragged Point’s only traffic light

sway in the wind, Tallweather recognized

one of the voices, the Help Me one.

It was his.