David Henson

yellow and black line on a straight road

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Gone Lawn, Moonpark Review, Literally Stories, Splonk and Fiction on the Web. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.

Road Closed Signs

The road closed sign was just
beyond the walnut-colored horses
that rolled on their backs like giant dogs.
We drove past it
to avoid back-tracking through deep ruts,
put the sun behind the blue barn to our east
and found five miles of gravel,
puddled but passable.

Edging past lanes crooked
as the mailbox posts,
we passed men with wrenches dangling
through loops in their pants
as they leaned into tractors
still caked with October harvest.

Distracted by crows
with wingspans as long as my arm,
the gravel ended without us noticing,
and we sank in to the axles.

The farmer wouldn’t take a thing
for the easy tug from his Massey Ferguson.
He said we were crazy
for not turning back
when we could hear that the fields
were all full of frogs.