Photo by Linda Harms / Shutterstock.com The snow geese descend, leaning back, it seems, against the pond, as they land,wings out—for drag? For balance? I never think about flying in the way creatures with wings do. The mechanics, I mean. In my dreams, it seems...
Looking up Sheldon Creek. Effectuated by making it this far without submerging my boots once in river water—deft side-skirting, hanging on of root as glacial braids of the Toklat guzzled Away and North, to Yukon or further mysteries, ten feet below where I clung to...
a hammock of winter sleep in the armpit of the highway / a log truck raises its voice above the monotone / sound accelerates down the liquid sheet / polyvinyltraffic cones idle in powder’s mouth / a lone pigeon drives the emptiness home Eimear Laffan’s...
Photo by Karin Hedetniemi The front door to my heart is a windswept coastline park, wild around the edges. A rocky shore strewn with slippery kelp, boulders, piles of driftwood. Framed by backward leaning trees. Gusts so fierce at times, you can barely stand upright....
Less than 100 yards down the sloughthis swamp’s so thick it’s easy to imagine a world where carsdon’t exist, where a breeze is worth more than gold.The water under your boat, the mess of palmettos lining the shore,the bald cypress blocking sun— everything, all of it,...
