She’s digging a hole in the front yard, scarf folded tight to her head, a four-year-old babushka practicing paleontology. The damage done to the
Simmering paths of my headlights steadily deadened through the fog through the dark as I come upon what seems a sudden encampment on the
this morning, the pond looks like marble. Rose and charcoal dissolving to dove, to guava, rouge. Only mallards pushing holes in the glass, so