The white-haired matron in the road-side hut rattles two bags, “You pickin’? Bushel’r peck?” Noa turns away, clings. I try: I love YOU, a
My father must have loved the early morning; perhaps he loved the way the light folded across the table like fresh linen in the
soft rain on the pavement of a city street fast cartwheels foot-falling down a narrow hall bottlecaps shaken in a tin my dog’s paws