Dew Point – Kate Wylie

At the exact moment where night becomes day,
there’s a meet-cute between heat & atmosphere
that only takes place in certain places; not in L.A.
or the Florida Keys, where white-sand minutes
tick strictly forward, but along plainland rivers
where crickets & frogs take turns directing an
orchestra of timber rattlesnakes & cormorants
singing backwards, their wings spread against
stars, sweeping shadows into daylight. We went
at dawn down into the fog-thick valley, just to
listen, our feet dangling from a sycamore
log stretched graciously across the shallow inlet,
blue indigo & purple loosestrife shining in the
almost-morning. I promise, we’ll remember this
forever, the way today held out so long, our feet
red with gravel, dipped in the river, cleansed
by moss-thick stones & morning’s first glimmer.


Kate Wylie (she/they) is a poet from St. Louis, Missouri. An MFA candidate at Pacific University and 2018 Webster University alum, Wylie reads fiction for The New Southern Fugitives and is a regular contributor to the Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome society magazine Loose Connections.

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