now it’s hot our stink mud sinking green our flybelly flick our wet plash wed to spring rattle the low places bulrush deep steep
for Richard Layzell How did the goat die? It stepped too high, too fast. Thunder threatened from the sea. It bleated once, twice as
Somehow the fireflies still emerged that summer, still hovered and would alight, gently curious, on his outstretched hands—they felt soft as a tiny purr,