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 Emily Fridley There’s a proverb of sorts that I’ve read somewhere, akin to “God could not be everywhere, so he created angels instead and called them mothers.” Mine must be one of these. For there are few and far between that can even hope to be compared to her…
