The Last Thing
The Last Thing by Ada Limón The Last Thing First there was the blue wing of a scraggly loud jay tucked into the shrubs. Then, the bluish black moth drunkenly tripping from blade to blade. Then, the quiet that came roaring in like the RJ Corman over Broadway near the RV shop. These are the last three things that happened. Not in the universe, but here, in the basin of my mind, where I’m always making a list for you, recording the day’s minor urchins: silvery dust mote, pistachio shell, the dog eating a sugar snap pea. It’s going to rain soon, close clouds bloated above us, the air like a net about to release all the caught fishes, a storm siren in the distance. I know you don’t always understand, but let me point to the first wet drops landing on the stones, the nois...