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 Carol Hamilton Today is Halloween, and the sky does not look spooky…but I remember our house of many demons set back on a rutted Ohio road at the edge of a ravine that roared with snowmelt, dried up in summer, birthed a hillside of infant snakes one spring. My middle…
By Carol Hamilton At 34,000 feet or so, I love the little maps that appear on the back of the seat in front of me. They show me where I am, the planned route, the lands and seas easily connected with red dashes and arrows. I read the startling temperature…