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 Don Morgan The ghost of night shades the waterfront, cliffs and his hasty footprints in the sand. Painted flowers and her tears flow back to the sea.
by Don G. Morgan I see the grandeur of the snow covered winter trees, and the lake. A cloud dark sky, the moon, the center of a filigree of light gleaming in the snow, reflected on the lake’s white frost. And above that a cathedral of towering pillars, mushrooms…