by Michael Sofranko
This encounter with another’s strangeness began a few years agowhen I discovered bored, terrified, protective stares coming from the goats and llamaspatrolling the edge of a gate keeper’s electrified fence. The dogwoods, gnarled and leaningin the limestone field, entangledwith the bare mesquite. It was another yearwhen no one figured outwhy happiness is like moonlightslippling into the bedroom, staying only long enough to leave us feeling we will find a way into the daylight we always claimed we wanted. This is a long sentence about lovewe begin to write. It begins as nothing but talk in a parking lot, then quickly fillsthe over-heated car with steam.Until we see nothing outsideof ourselves, just sitting there,staring through the windshield,where the future appears in the turbulent sky we begin to breathe.