I pass the feeder and yell, Grackle party! And then an hour later I yell, Mourning dove afterparty! (I call the feeder the party and the seed on the ground the afterparty.) I am getting so good at watching that...
You’ve never seen a lilac in Mississippi. Backstage you wear lotion laced with its chemical imitation. A ballet mistress says relevé always as command: lift onto the toe using only the heel. Your ankle’s bewilderment old as the horned owl gaze from your mother hunched in the...
And here I am, a lonely woman on the threshold of a cold season at the dawn of realizing earth’s sullied existence and the sky's blue despair and the impotence of these hands made of cement.
Time passed. Time passed and the clock struck four times. Four times. Today...