Hail on the train
The girl, small in my arms, and eyes wide at the violence of ice. We hurtle together toward home. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Dawn chorus of crows
The waking hour. Silver light through the trees and a high moan of boxcars dopplering. The house asleep. The baby breathing. Fear at my throat. Or at least loss, for tempus fugit: that old chestnut. Perhaps we could Peter Pan, forever moving west. Or maybe, as the poet said, west is Everywhere. A verb: we…