During our morning walk, my dog finds a dead bird or chipmunk rotting under a pile of leaves. I pretend I’m OK that he’s maneuvering his
Debra Marquart
By late August, it was clear my zucchini was doomed. So was the cucumber. The drought had not been kind to these plants, though I suspect
When insomnia visits, I find myself numbering wandering things: sand, pollen, electrons, wildebeests, Aristotelian wombs. Or Shelley walking the Alpine glaciers, unnerved by their sublime stealthy
Donald Patten is an artist from Belfast, Maine. He is currently a senior in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program at the
The Layout descent starts gradually, two ravens caw Fossil Lake against gray skies falls into trickling down, snow creates East Rosebud Creek paintbrush, stonecrop Dewey Lake
1. Treasure On a Friday afternoon in June, my eldest son and I search for treasure on the shores of Lake Erie. We crouch down on
We bury my grandfather in a hillside cemetery outside Atlanta. It is July 2020. Throughout the brief ceremony, elongated with heat, we stand measured paces apart.
My brother and I dug for worms, our knees furrowing the farmer’s dirt, our nails blackened by its bounty. And where we found them, we cradled
in memory of John Beecher 1953, westbound from Boston on the Lake Shore Limited, steel whining on steel through Berkshire pines, skirting the hems of
with passion, several coquís sing, though its already past dawn meanwhile the cat considers her every step, and taking them, you can’t hear her together, these