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 Carolyn Wright Enshrouded by the black chasm of night, my spirit awaits. The crackling of the grandfather fire and its wood smoke, intoxicate and call me to a time I no longer know. The scent of pine mixed with cedar surrounds my body as it wafts up on its…
