by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
By Lavonne Westbrooks Lying in grass, drinking blackberry wine I watch two hawks arguing territory with crow. Ee-ow, ee-ow, I call. They respond, settle differences; quiet descends. Never been to Spain or Africa or any Asian country, only London when I was five. I remember Father Christmas left presents on…