Five days of rain and now this clean morning pulse of pure light— luminous on the sill the peacock plume’s iridescent blue-green. Whenever I
Go use a pen at the courthouse. Hope it still registers ink and sign on the dotted line, if you’re willing, and he aint’
Mini-Cleopatras of the backyard creek, what faith shakes us from the bone of make-believe? Sometimes lions, we stretch sun-lengthened limbs, laugh fierce bells of