There’s only one stonethat matters. Cushioned in mudand clay and seaweed,it feeds on dreams. In the sludgeof spring’s first run-off,a hand might reach down,lift the nearby weight of one,skip it across water’sirrepressible bone. Whohas picked such a stonefrom amongst the many? And why that one? I was once touchedby such a stone and becauseof that…
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The Cornrow Fire
The fire took off as though it were a living thing. Hissing, it danced over the dry grasses and up into the resinous pines. As though it were a strange recital, the blaze tangoed onto the boughs where its dance widened in skirts of flame.