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“On Day 42 of the Oil Spill”


This poem is based on an eerie sound I have been hearing recently in my back yard.



In dry woods behind my house

one of the trees is squeaking

in rising winds, perhaps a heedless

willow over-reaching its new branch

down to the evaporating gully.

One of the trees is squeaking, a sound

like the final swipes of paper towel

on an attic window — thin and septic,

a pinched distress. One of the trees

reminds me of a injured creature

squealing. Its zithering goes on and on,

no rainstorm to come to our aid.



by Therese L. Broderick




About ThereseLBroderick

Independent community poet living in Albany, New York USA.

2 responses »

  1. Hi Therese,

    Some sounds can shred the nerves. Your phrase :”thin and septic,/a pinched distress.” is very atmospheric.


  2. Therese, this poem is so perfectly pitched. I know these dry, distressed sounds.


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