by Michael Shoemaker
Winged Rainbow
Read More »Sorrel River Ranch, Moab, Utah
by Sumit Parikh
Above snowy mist and pasture
a crescent fades
manes bow in the dark ahead
and a breeze gently grazes gravel
Depth of Field
by Celso Antonio de Almeida
Marcel’s cloth moved in small, precise circles, coaxing a shine from the leather beneath his hands. The morning bustle of the Boulevard du Temple swirled around him, a chaotic dance of horses, carriages, and hurried Parisians that contrasted sharply with his own stillness.
“You’re quiet today, Marcel,” Henri observed, peering down at the bootblack. “Troubles at home?”
Marcel’s hands paused for a moment before resuming their work. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Monsieur Beaumont. Just thinking about changes.”
Read More »When I Sleep, I Do Not Dream
by Michael Shoemaker
I do not dream when I sleep
and this is where
elucidations begin.
2 art pieces
The Uncloistered Bird Feeder
by Chris Wardle
We’re back now
to GMT’s bleak Wintering,
breeding gratitude,
and an attitude for slow abundance,
within the assumed privilege
of doubly-blessed glazing
and insulated walls, isolating.
Winter’s Eye
by Caitlin Stratton
The doe’s ears stood out, illuminated by an orange glow. Further ahead, in the middle of a clearing, sat an uneven log cabin. Smoke rose from its chimney, and the origin of the orange seeped from a frosted window, showing off a burning fire inside. A small hand pulled the window curtains to one side, letting the light dance into the clearing, and a child’s eyes investigated the deer with a twinkle. The doe stilled, matching the child’s gaze.
Read More »lemon juice
French Press
by Megan Nicholson
I asked for this reality of living on my own, alone. Being alone means you are solely responsible for your quality of life, with no one else to rely on. And goddamn, I really need to clean these dishes. They’ve been sitting there for a week, and god knows there’s plenty more around this damn apartment that needs to be washed. I did the first half of the dishes yesterday; now I need this second half done so I can clean out Pepper’s litter tray. The poor thing’s open bathroom is filled with interwoven fur and hay and pellets. There’s so much to get done, and there’s still four hours before I need to get to bed and wake up for work tomorrow.
Read More »Arboreal Ghosts
by Brenda Mox
Haunted by arboreal ghosts
emerging from the forests womb
the solitary wanderer staggered along,
shaggy like a crow, with eyes wide open.
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