Poetry

A green tablecloth covers the three pushed together tables. Glass pitchers of water, lemonade, and chocolate milk sit on the adult's end.

A bird's soft, breast-feather drifts with the falling snow and settles ...

Black flies swarm in the horrid heat, circle the Nuer mother and her two daughters ...

how forgiveness feels: like the game starts over 0-0 ...

But I have no poem to write except He opens my mind ...

A skein and a gaggle each requires more than one bird.

I fear my husband thinks he's the archangel Gabriel. Nighttime is when such things can happen.

Five specks in V-formation move in smooth approach. The sun transmits a flushed alarm, thin flames of tangerine among the crests.

After the illness struck, those who lived near enough gathered to bury the child.