that the brushes on the bottle-brush bush could not be redder, that a hummingbird looks in through the window screen, that both my arms
Jim’s barber shop is butter yellow with a shelf of taxidermy on the wall, an eider duck at one end across the too-vast linoleum
The white-haired matron in the road-side hut rattles two bags, “You pickin’? Bushel’r peck?” Noa turns away, clings. I try: I love YOU, a
My father must have loved the early morning; perhaps he loved the way the light folded across the table like fresh linen in the