I glide the knife starting where I’ve made an incision, decapitated the bluefish silver head and body and keen teeth
Adolescent summers, seeking solace, I rode from Reno into Sierra foothills. My horse the yellow of a dried sage flower. The air, bright, seared
The magnolia’s petals are splendidly pink, and the turtles here have lined up on a log that juts over the pond as sunlight falls