they threaded down the mountain, and through their bodies, the mountain moved. Carrying last light in the rough fur of their backs,
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Dear deer tracks, divots shaped like hearts down this sandy wash we follow the memory of water, the stone that is the
if the lake, as the man said, was tea-stained, then I am a spoonful of honey, content to dissolve in warm summer
Christopher rides over on his bike to ask if I want to visit our house before it’s too late, and it might
