wherever_i_will_find_you ovenbird A series of cryptic notes arrive damp and folded, ends tucked in and under and around like the origami squares I gave to friends when we sat in desks smeared with white-out and anxiety—so much lined paper soaked in secrets. The notes direct me to meet you in the square of gravel and weeds behind my childhood home just as the sun lets its leg dangle over the edge of the horizon. I sneak out the window before dawn and do stealthy passes of the perimeter, waiting to catch a glimpse of you. I scan the overgrown garden as if you might be small enough to pass beneath the wilting leaves of the slug eaten hostas. As I come around the side of the house there’s a soft tapping on the front door that I think must be you. I call your name, making it a question, but only robins answer, chirping and chasing as they pull the day’s first miserable worms from the dewy earth. When I reach the front porch I find my passport in a ziploc bag taped to the mailbox. There’s no sign of you anywhere. This passport is good for a decade. But the only place I want to travel is wherever I will find you. There are no more clues, and the sun is up and wending its way to the west. 260725 what's it to you? who go blather from