By Michael Chitwood

Featured Image: Mountain Brook by Albert Bierstadt

The thief was none other than the wind.

The thief was the color of nickels.

The thief hummed in the downspouts, around corners.

I’ve already told you.

You should know better.

Mister Know-it-all. Mister Hands-in-your-pockets. Mister Sleep-for-the-morning-is-coming.

The thief had the cinnamon of fallen leaves on his breath.

The thief put a tear in our eyes.

We’ve been over this.

Down this road. Crossed this bridge.

You wake up one morning and the thief is already up, in his gray slacks, his hands clasped in a prayerful manner.

Now what?

The melon-musk of her passion is still on your fingers.

The thief will take even that by afternoon.

But not now. Not just yet.

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Originally appeared in NOR 4