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…
Scotland By Lindsay Flanagan the frosts are falling around my face and it’s grey outside, as within but still you face the bitter cold standing on the concrete porch because we don’t have wooden here anymore but still you bid me, come in the waters turn clear in my hand…