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 Debra Hanley We arrived before the hearse. Heads turned as the deafening sound of twenty motorcycles rolled through the cemetery. Dressed in jeans and t-shirts layered beneath our vests, many were decorated with military insignia. We parked with precision dismounted, and gathered our flags. Solemnly we took up positions…