browsing archive: Winter 22-23

Flinch finally, the moths have left for the mountains. I watch horses being led from a fire. I feel made of driftwood.

Mother Goose Revisited At the corner of the bricked-in lane, / she speaks to us through a vine-covered fence / in the

In Case of Drought Call for spring. Conjure winter’s end. Bandage limbs cracked or stunted by wind or worry. Pray for bees,

They canceled school due to the treacherous ice and sleet. In the morning, I listened as the flurries and flecks of hail

What does it mean to construct digital worlds while the actual world is crumbling before our eyes?                          —Jenny Odell, How To Do

July smothered the city, suffocating the prospect of any outdoor activity conducted between sunrise and sunset. Air conditioners hummed outside apartment windows

Christopher rides over on his bike to ask if I want to visit our house before it’s too late, and it might

Bismarck, ND I am closing my eyes because the lights have come back on. These blinding glints across the field of my

They buzz me all the time, like fighter jet pilots. There is a pattern to it, routine. First, they notice the wood

On most mornings in the salt marshes of Hempstead Bay, interlocking islands of emerald grasses flower with life. Egrets inscribe the marshland