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 Jean Howard New Year Though all day the sky laid its lid, heavy clay sealing the horizon, Gray fell with thickness on hills, ran its muck through the scrub oak. Hours clogged into prints made in snow, once brilliant and dazzling with promise. With the heavy hand a sculptor…