Two Redtails on an updraft hawk the field, their flight a dance of widening and approaching circles spiraling. It’s spring. Far below, the next
Fever overcomes me. The right wind is euphoric; the touch of fingers. I am the one who is going to cry though my winter
This morning in Tamale, a woman sprinkles dried red peppers over her ceramic plate of plantains and yams. It is the hour of feasting,