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 Jesse Breite God’s broken teeth spit out and tumbled from the bald peak, gurgled from earth’s hot belly. Pinnacle Mountain is the only peak I’ll always climb in silence. The congregation of lizards waits and listens to the shifting stems, the heart’s blossom,…
