Never mind the grand green vistas, the granite-walled highways, the crunch of tires on a dusty dirt road. Forget the wild blackberries lining the
Under March skies, palette shifting white to blue, I arm with steel, rusty teeth, hack, attack the thickets— no prince in search of kisses.
Coffee shops beckon. Katherine Hastings takes the reader along for such a ride in her second collection Nighthawks.