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 Sherry Rind Dear Blankenship, Crow Pickins magazine, famous for instant turn-around, kept my poems for 6 weeks before returning them. Does that mean I came close to an acceptance? Should I feel better about the rejection? Yrs, Pariah Dear Pariah, Sometimes a reply is slow because the ms…