Something about snow in the mountains. Something about snowdrops in the morning. All those syllables frolicking on an alpine hillside. All those petals bent
A bee, legs caked heavy with the burden of pollen explores the cupped bosom of a blossom— dahlia, lavender, globe mallow—any flower to
Mayfly nymphs might have sensed the interrupting gods, my small, inquisitive fingers wondering at their triple tails, pulsing in the water. I, too,