The editors of Cider Press Review are delighted to be able to announce our nominations for the 2016 Pushcart Prize.
But for the owl’s persistent question, issuing now and then from a nearby spruce in the darkness and falling snow, I would think that
A brutal misshapen cold, and us unready. Whicker. Vessel-proof, failing. Dwarfed by things already shrunken. Wind making noise as it passes through our age,
The road’s rising pulled our car forward, like a throat drawing in a flake of coal with the clear mountain air. Everything was contrast: