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…
Thickly Settled By Christy Bailes Sadness blows west with air so dry I taste bitter dust mixed with tumbleweed and golden brush. What I lost has reversed direction, as if it were the last moment before death. Kneeling to tree roots in rich, summer earth, I inhale New England one…