{Three images: ​a squirrel poses by lounging against the branch of a tree as if it were a model; a man and woman in their twenties sit around on a couch with their computers and a pug drinking coffee, laughing and reminiscing, dressed in casual cold weather clothes; two bandaids make an X against a red brick wall.}

​Their chief property: impermanence. 
What one discovers must be 
quickly preserved.

The chief challenges: scale and speed. 
How to capture a single flake, magnify 
it hundreds of times, be certain that

the intact image is burned onto 
the large glass negative, all accomplished 
in the dark of the blackout hood. 

The primary goal: to create an image 
clean and clear, free of motion when, 
by nature, the flake is only motion.

He tries it hundreds of times, 
the microscope, the camera, 
the hot keg lights blasting hard. 

Finally, the contradictions hold 
and the ephemeral is captured. 
When he makes a positive and drops

the paper into the developer, 
he watches as winter itself emerges, 
intricate and perfect.

William Reichard is the author of five poetry collections, most recently, Two Men Rowing Madly Toward Infinity (Broadstone Books, 2016). He is the editor of American Tensions: Literature of Identity and the Search for Social Justice (New Village Press, 2011) an anthology of fiction, poetry, and essays addressing social justice issues. He lives in Saint Paul, MN.

My wife clangs through the kitchen, 
cleaning up after my breakfast. Crow 
on the bare branch stares 
in the window, but never caws 
my name. His bird-head pivots 
bringing one black eye 
into full view. I am egg-scrambled

and potato-fried. My stomach 
tumbles. Her cooking 
is going to kill me. The damn gray wind,

ancient, a wailing spirit, rips through 
the cinderblock. It shakes wrought-iron 
fences because no wind has bones. I won't listen

to another second of unholy racket. Die 
wind, I holler, but still the cry careens across 
my concrete walls. A new howl 
joins the din with such fury I twist 
my neck toward—why 
is the skillet arcing 
down toward my head?

{Three images: ​ a young blonde teenaged girl walks along grass near a fence on a paved road in a residential area touching the fence with a stick on a sunny day; a freshly baked loaf of bread rests in the hands of someone who is breaking it in half over a blue plate; the side profile of the head of a live turkey.} 

​Wisps of grey hair escaping from beneath her knitted cap, the elderly woman drew her lap blanket up to her chest against the evening chill. Rocking on her front porch, her worn chair creaked as she gazed up at the nearly barren labyrinth of branches of the ancient oak illuminated by the rising moon. The year was nearing its end, and she took the moment to assess her life, also waning. Her mind, still agile, reached back to her youth.

Eighteen years old, she nestled her blond head against Mike’s shoulder in the front seat of his shiny new 1938 Ford. Lover’s Lane on Saturday night. What could be more romantic? The school year over, she looked forward to a summer of fun before starting college in the fall. Mike proposed that night, catching her by surprise. Marrying him, much as she loved him, would mean supporting his education, and giving up her dreams of a career and independence. With a heavy heart, she turned him down, and always wondered how her life would have evolved had she said yes.

At twenty-four, she held two job offers, one in each hand, her eyes darting uncertainly between them. One was in her home town needing little change in her life.  The other was across the country requiring a new beginning, away from everything and everyone she knew. Was she brave enough? If she could leave Mike behind her, she thought, she could attempt something new. The decision was made, but also left her wondering what if.

The increasing chill in the air roused her from her musings. She shivered and wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket, knowing she should move inside, but not wanting to lose the moment, as she relived seminal events in her life.

Her patient, adoring husband of seven years cradled her in his arms on their sofa. Head on his shoulder, her silver streaked blond curls mingled with his salt and pepper crew cut.

His voice was somber. We need to talk, darling. We can’t conceive. We know that now. Do we remain childless or seek adoption? Are we too old in our forties?

Their decision was one she never questioned. Life without her daughter would have been unthinkable.

Momma, I’m pregnant. Her sixteen-year old daughter stood before her, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. What should I do?

I can’t answer that for you. Whatever you decide, I will support you. You’re the one who will have to be able to look yourself in the mirror for the rest of your life, knowing in your heart you did the right thing.

But I’ll always wonder what my life would have been like the
other way, Momma.

Yes, you will. Our lives are shaped by the choices we make.

Her old eyes traced a limb of the tree from its take off
point on the trunk. At first broad and straight, it began branching and narrowing, and she chose which to follow each time it split. She traced the bough to its end, the tallest and most frail reaching for the sky.

Time to come in, Grandma, she heard.

Smiling, she rose from her rocker, and entered the warmth of her family’s home. I’m so fortunate, she thought. I have no regrets.

Judy Salz, a semi-retired physician, uses her years of patient encounters and life experiences for inspiration. Her stories appear in Helen: A Literary Magazine, MUSED BellaOnline Literary Review, The Literary Nest, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Gnarled Oak Online Literary Journal, Kevin MD, and others. Please visit her webpage at www.judysalz.com.

Her first novel, Worthy, follows two physicians and a hospital chaplain on their journeys toward redeeming their self- esteem. Their efforts succeed in achieving what was previously thought to be unachievable. It is set for release this November.