Spring 2015


Across clearings, an eye—Ted Hughes, “The Thought-Fox” Mushrooms on the trail indicate you haven’t roved this prairie of late; soft-sponged and pink, they’re sweet as the berries ripped in your teeth. “Foxes are opportunistic feeders,” notes a sign—I never mind the goldfinches who arc my breeze and swap big bluestem…


1. Dad held our dog up high as his arms stretched, by the scruff of her neck, a black-furred mar against the summer sky. Mother wasn’t home; we saw him and hid in the folded-down pop-up camper, its perfect skirt of weeds anchoring it to the yard.

When You Say “Home”

I’ve got a whole mess of stuff to do today,” Michael’s mother said. He watched her reach up into the hallway closet and pull their big, red suitcase from the top shelf. Michael’s grandmother was being turned out of another nursing home, this one just down Highway 74 towards King’s…


The birches dizzy me, shaking down their mint and white confetti crowns around the Scarlet Tanager, a trilling sky-high king: red come orange, come black, come green. From this forest freshed with song, a goose lay drawn, opened in a field ringed in feathers— orange come red, come black, come…


There’s nothing in this warm, vegetal dusk That is not beautiful or that will last.       — Joe Bolton, “Tropical Courtyard” At the end of Main Street, the sun pulls the road downward a little lower each day, before disappearing in green.