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 Rodger Martin In the pressure of the fuselage, at this height I’ve become Jeopardy host pushing scripts for an audience no one sees. Science for one thousand. My portal turns microscope, its double panes a slide and the Earth out there, holy in its ghost of curve, demands comprehension….