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 Damon Marbut Each time I turn over my shoulder and plummet toward Earth I do not recall the first time I’ve done this, that I have left for a while. But I do it relentlessly, unquestioningly, upwardly joining something to learn how to fall away back into myself. When…