Cold I cocoon myself encasing the stringy green hammock around me, camouflaged to sleep. Waking to tittering bushtits flitting through the leaves, their jittery
& why shouldn’t joy beget more joy in the strange and cold streets where water has thieved the leaves and pushed them into storm
Welcome to Volume 2 of Cider Press Review (2001), courtesy of The Digital Project. In this volume of Cider Press Review, we revisit 2001,