It won’t stop raining. We keep our muddy boots in a barrel beside the door, next to a shelf of umbrellas and towels. Every time we come in from the drizzle, we give the barrel the evil eye. It always looks appropriately ashamed.
I should be writing. The literary trifecta are in reach: laptop, coffee, Annie Dillard books. But even so, I can’t stop watching the breeze play with the steam off my coffee. It’s mesmerizing, like a hands-on lava lamp. Just as the sunlight catches the swirls, they vanish. Diffused. It’s normal and romantic, ethereal and earthy. … Read More
My county is under water. The levees broke, the rains fell, and we collectively moved to higher ground.
REFUGEE They heard the whispers of genocide from the lips of the angel, waking them from a deep sleep. How frantically would you pack if your baby had a price on His head?