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
Rank these—true or false— from easiest to hard: A melody is not a pretty girl, nor a spoon striking a water glass. The
And often, it seems, we live inside the rain. It comes to us like the folding of hands. It moves with secret footsteps
I have always loved the wind: chimes gabbling as fast as they can like a toddler just back from the park, the creaking