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 Lavonne Westbrooks Lying in grass, drinking blackberry wine I watch two hawks arguing territory with crow. Ee-ow, ee-ow, I call. They respond, settle differences; quiet descends. Never been to Spain or Africa or any Asian country, only London when I was five. I remember Father Christmas left presents on…