by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
By Andrea Warren The white color of innocence drips From my silky transcended span As the water ripples an outline Of my graceful refined body Tenderly I reach back to guide My precious little ones Anticipating our wild surroundings And their tendency to playfully wander Many hues dance about our…