The snapping turtle was dying on Lakeside Drive, webbed feet paddling the concrete—visceral instinct. Weed clotted embankment littered with cans, condoms and
browsing archive: featuredwriting3
After the fires came the rain. The creek skipped down to the sea. What’s drizzle? What’s downpour? asked the children of drought.
On the summer solstice we bike to the edge of the forest, jump the tracks and drink wine on the bridge with
that summer I lived in a children’s book— my loft above a flower shop, my skirt a flap to lift. My parents
—after the Sackett v. EPA decision, May 25, 2023 The river I knew was near the sea. I saw its tides, smelled
Poets love ‘em much as legal tender, trysting in the twilight inflecting cold rhyme & like reeling drunks daylong in meadowsweet splurging
Territory From Helan Mountains to Qin Mountains (Oh two miraculous mountains keeping out The northern gales and southern rains) From one massive
Vallone di Sea at Gias Balma Massiet, Italy, 1500 meters By lichen-spackled stone walls Granario Fienile Hay loft above The pens Flagstone-slabbed
What do you call yourself at night when only the bats & nightshade can hear you? Girl, girl, girl, sometimes sparrow, lichen,
There’s nothing left in this frozen field. Bent cornstalks in icy mud. Nubs picked clean. All vegetable matter blanched to a ghostly