Like the imperfect sentence that almost conveys an elusive bit of truth, this particular run can’t be left alone. Something rare and universal is lingering there, just beyond the periphery, so you turn to it again, and again, and again, finding it just gone each time… maddening.
A picture of a young man hangs in my workspace. Four young men actually, but there’s one in particular looking directly into the camera and, as the frame’s orientation would have it, over my shoulder while I write. I knew this man to be, among many other things, a natural storyteller, so it’s a, Read More
The river is a master storyteller. It gives cold weight to the tug at your calves, voice to the broad, gentle riffle, tang to the shower freshened air, and mystery to the sliding greens and blues of the long, glassy channel. Before the subject of its narrative is introduced – a tiny yellow puff, Read More